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The  Cha?npagne  Sta7idard 


Br  THE    SAME  AUTHOR 

KITWYK:  A  Story.  With  numerous  Illus- 
trations by  Howard  Pyle,  Albert 
Sterner,  and  G.  W.  Edwards.  Crown 
8vo.     bs. 

THE    FORBIDDEN    FRUIT  ;  or,  The 

Shaddock  or  The  Grape  Fruit.  How 
to  Serve  and  How  to  Eat  It.  By  Mrs. 
John  Lane.     Fcap.  8vo.     6d. 

Translated  by  Mrs.  John  Lane. 
PETERKINS:  The  Story  of  a  Dog.  Trans- 
lated from  the  German  of  OssiP  Schubin 
by  Mrs.  John  Lane.  With  numerous 
Illustrations  by  Cottington  Taylor 
Small  4to.     3^.  dd. 


champXgne 
standard 


M.~  John  Lane 


LO  N  D  O  N 

'W&^X^ork  .JOHN  LAN  E   COMB^NY 

\   ^    O     6 


Copyright,   1906, 
By  John  Lane  Company 


William  Clowes  jc  Sons,  Limited,  Printers,  London 


TO  THE  PUBLISHER 
MY  GENIAL  AND 
SUGGESTIVE  CRITIC 


My    Preface 

I  WAS  sitting  alone  with  a  lead-pencil, 
having  a  tete-a-tete  with  a  sheet  of 
paper.  A  brisk  fire  burned  on  the 
hearth,  and  through  the  beating  of 
the  rain  against  the  little,  curved  Georgian 
windows  I  could  hear  the  monotonous  roll 
of  the  sea  at  the  foot  of  the  narrow  street, 
and  the  tear  and  crunching  of  the  pebbles 
down  the  shingle  as  the  waves  receded. 

I  had  been  ordered  to  write  a  preface  to 
explain  the  liberty  I  had  taken  in  making 
miscellaneous  observations  about  two  great 
nations,  and  then  putting  a  climax  to  my 
effrontery  by  having  them  printed.  So 
here  I  was  trying,  with  the  aid  of  a  lead- 
pencil  and  a  sheet  of  paper,  to  construct  a 
preface,  and  that  without  the  ghost  of  an 
idea  how  to  begin.  Nor  was  the  dim 
electric  light  illuminating ;  nor,  in  the 
narrow   street,   the   nasal   invocation   of   an 


My  Preface 

aged  man  with  a  green  shade  over  his  eyes, 
arm  in  arm  with  an  aged  woman  keenly 
aHve  to  pennies,  somewhere  out  of  whose 
interiors  there  emanated  a  song  to  the 
words,  "  dowry,  glowry,  hallaluh  !  " 

In  fact,  all  the  ideas  that  did  occur  to 
me  were  miles  away  from  a  preface.  It 
was  maddening !  I  even  demanded  that 
the  ocean  should  stop  making  such  a  horrid 
noise,  if  only  for  five  minutes.  And  that 
set  me  idly  to  thinking  what  would  happen 
to  the  world  if  the  tides  should  really  be 
struck  motionless  even  for  that  short  space 
of  time.  The  idea  is  so  out  of  my  line 
that  it  is  quite  at  the  service  of  any 
distressed  romancer,  dashed  with  science, 
who,  also,  may  be  nibbling  his  pencil. 

I  sat  steeped  in  that  profound  melancholy 
familiar  to  authors  who  are  required  to  say 
something  and  who  have  nothing  to  say. 
Finally,  in  a  despair  which  is  familiar  to 
such  as  have  seen  the  first  act  of  Faust,  I 
invoked  that  Supernatural  Power  who  comes 
with  a  red  light  and  bestows  inspiration. 

"  If  you'll    only   help    me   to  begin,"   I 


Vlll 


My  Preface 

cried,  "  I'll  do  the  rest ! "  For  I  realised  in 
what  active  demand  his  services  must  be. 

I  didn't  believe  anything  v^ould  happen. 
Nothing  ever  does  except  in  the  first  act  of 
Faust ^  and  I  must  really  take  this  opportunity 
to  beg  Faust  not  to  unbutton  his  old  age  so 
obviously.  Still,  that  again  has  nothing  to 
do  with  my  preface  ! 

I  reclined  on  a  red  plush  couch  before 
the  fire  and  thought  gloomily  of  Faust's 
buttons,  and  how  the  supernatural  never 
comes  to  one's  aid  these  material  days,  when 
my  eyes,  following  the  elegant  outlines  of 
the  couch,  strayed  to  a  red  plush  chair  at 
its  foot,  strangely  and  supernaturally  out  of 
place.  And  how  can  I  describe  my  amaze- 
ment and  terror  when  I  saw  on  that  red 
plush  chair  a  big  black  cat,  with  his  tail 
neatly  curled  about  his  toes!  A  strange 
black  cat  where  no  cat  had  ever  been  seen 
before !  He  stared  at  me,  and  I  stared  at 
him.  Was  he  the  Rapid  Reply  of  that 
Supernatural  Power  I  had  so  rashly  invoked  .'' 
At  the  mere  thought  I  turned  cold. 

"  Are   you  a  message  '  from  the  night's 


IX 


My  Preface 

Plutonian  shore'  ?  "  I  said,  trembling,  "  or 
do  you  belong  to  the  landlady  ?  " 

His  reply  was  merely  to  blink,  and  indeed 
he  was  so  black  and  the  background  was  so 
black  that  but  for  his  blink  I  shouldn't 
have  known  he  was  there. 

"  If,"  I  murmured,  "  he  recognises  quota- 
tions from  I' he  Raven^  it  will  be  a  sign 
that  he  is  going  to  stay  forever.'  Where- 
upon I  declaimed  all  the  shivery  bits  of 
that  immortal  poem,  which  I  had  received 
as  a  Christmas  present. 

He  was  so  far  from  being  agitated  that 
before  I  had  finished  he  had  settled  down 
in  a  cosy  heap,  with  his  fore-paws  tucked 
under  his  black  shirt  front,  and  was  fast 
asleep,  delivering  himself  of  the  emotional 
purr  of  a  tea  kettle  in  full  operation.  For 
a  moment  I  was  appalled.  Was  this  new 
and  stodgy  edition  of  I'he  Raven  going  to 
stay  forever  ? 

"  '  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the 
night's  Plutonian  shore,'  "  I  urged,  but  all  he 
did  was  to  open  one  lazy  eye,  and  wink. 
For   a   moment  I  was  frozen  with  horror. 


Mjy  Preface 

Was  I  doomed  to  live  forever  in  the 
society  of  a  strange  black  cat,  of  possibly 
supernatural  antecedents  ? 

"  '  Take  thy  form  from  off  my  door,' "  I 
was  about  to  address  him,  but  paused,  for, 
strictly  speaking,  he  was  not  on  my  door. 
And  just  as  I  was  quite  faint  with  apprehen- 
sion, common-sense,  which  does  not  usually 
come  to  the  aid  of  ladies  in  distress,  came  to 
mine.  Like  a  flash  it  came  to  me  that 
even  if  he  stayed  forever,  /  needn't.  I  had 
only  taken  the  lodgings  by  the  week.  He 
was  foiled. 

With  a  new  sense  of  security  I  again 
studied  him,  and  I  observed  a  subtle  change. 
He  was  evidently  a  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr. 
Hyde  kind  of  cat.  I  became  conscious  of 
a  complex  personality.  Though  to  the 
careless  observer  he  might  appear  to  be  only 
a  chubby  cat,  full  of  purr,  to  me  he  was 
rapidly  developing  into  something  more ; 
in  fact,  mind  was,  as  usual,  triumphing  over 
matter,  and  presto !  before  I  knew  what  he 
was  about,  he  had  changed  into  an  idea. 

"  To   call   you   only  a  cat ! "   I  cried  in 


XI 


My  Preface 

fervent  gratitude.  "  Only  a  cat,  indeed  ! 
You  are  much  more  than  a  cat — you  are  a 
miracle  !  You  are  a  preface  !  "  And  so, 
indeed,  he  was. 

Like  one  inspired  I  thought  of  his  first 
illustrious  ancestor,  on  four  legs,  the  one 
who  had  once  so  heroically  looked  at  a  king, 
with  the  result  that  not  only  did  he  gain 
a  perpetual  permission  for  his  race,  but  he 
has  passed  into  an  immortal  proverb.  That 
was  not  his  only  glorious  deed,  however, 
for  it  was  he  who  first  encouraged  the 
Modest.  If  it  had  not  been  for  that 
historic  cat,  what  would  have  become  of 
them !  When  the  Modest  want  to  say 
something,  no  matter  how  modestly,  and 
get  frightfully  snubbed,  don't  they  always 
declare  that  "  A  cat  may  look  at  a  king  "  ? 
Really,  that  illustrious  cat  has  never  had 
his  due !  Besides  heaps  of  other  things,  is 
he  not  the  original  type  of  the  first  true 
Republican  ?  I  would  like  to  know  what 
the  world  would  have  done  if  he  hadn't 
looked  at  the  king  ?  Why,  it  was  the  first 
great  Declaration  of  Independence. 

xii 


My  Preface 

Besides,  don't  we  owe  to  him,  though 
hitherto  unacknowledged,  those  underlying 
principles  of  that  other  glorious  Declaration 
of  Independence,  the  happy  result  of  which 
seems  to  be  that  tea  is  so  awfully  dear  in 
America  ? 

No,  one  doesn't  hold  with  a  cat's  laughing 
at  a  king.  No  cat  should  laugh  at  a  king, 
for  that  leads  to  anarchy  and  impoliteness 
and  things  going  off.  It  is  the  cat  who 
looks  civilly  at  kings  who  has  come  to  stay, 
along  with  republics  and  free  thought.  But 
possibly  that  is  the  one  little  drawback — 
thought  is  so  dreadfully  free !  It  used  to 
be  rather  select  to  think,  but  now  everybody 
thinks,  and  kings  and  other  important 
things  are  not  nearly  as  sacred  as  they  used 
to  be,  and  even  the  Modest  get  a  chance. 
I  suppose  it  is  the  spirit  of  the  Age. 
******* 

I  had  got  so  far  and  had  to  nibble  again  at 
my  pencil  for  further  inspiration,  when  the 
door  opened  and  my  landlady  appeared. 
She  is  a  worthy  woman,  and  she  holds  her 
head  on  one  side  like  an  elderly  canary-bird. 


XIU 


My  Preface 

She  spoke  with  a  remnant  of  breath. 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am,  we  have  lost  our 
Alonzo  the  Brave." 

"  You  will  probably,"  I  replied  with 
great  presence  of  mind,  considering  that  I 
had  no  idea  what  she  was  talking  about, 
"  find  him  with  the  fair  Imogene." 

Here  my  landlady,  with  her  eyes  pene- 
trating the  corners,  gave  a  cry  of  rapture, 
"  There  he  is  !  Glory  be  !  "  And  she 
pounced  on  the  black  and  purring  stranger, 
who  rose  and  stretched  his  back  to  a  moun- 
tainous height  and  his  jaws  to  a  pink  cavern. 

"  This  is  our  Alonzo  the  Brave,"  and 
she  pressed  his  rebellious  head  against  the 
pins  on  her  ample  bosom. 

"  Oh,  indeed,"  I  said  politely ;  "  and 
though  he  is  your  Alonzo  the  Brave,  I  hope 
you  won't  mind  his  being  my  preface,  will 
you  ?  And  may  I  ask  what  does  he  like 
best  in  the  world  besides  Imogene  ? " 

Alonzo  the    Brave   had   partly  wriggled 
out  of  her  ardent  embrace,  so  that  he  now 
hung  suspended  by  his  elastic  body,  while 
his  legs  dangled  at  amazing  length, 
xiv 


Mjy  Preface 

"  Me,"  and  my  landlady  simpered. 

"  I  mean  in  the  eating  line,"  I  explained. 

Catnip,  said  his  biographer,  was  his 
favourite  weakness. 

"  Then  get  him  a  pennyworth  of  catnip 
and  put  it  on  my  bill,"  I  said  benevolently. 
For,  I  thought  as  she  carried  him  off 
struggling,  even  a  poor  preface  is  cheap  at 
a  penny,  and  without  Alonzo  the  Brave 
there  would  have  been  no  preface,  and 
without  his  heroic  ancestor  the  Modest 
would  never  have  had  a  chance ! 

I  do  hope  this  explains  the  following 
pages.  I  have  not,  like  Alonzo's  ancestor, 
strictly  confined  my  observations  to  kings. 
I  have,  indeed,  ventured  to  look  at  all  sorts 
of  things,  many  of  them  very  sublime,  and 
solemn  and  important,  and  some  less  so  ;  and, 
as  the  following  pages  will  prove,  I  have 
availed  myself  freely  of  the  privilege  of  the 
Modest. 

If  the  two  greatest  nations  of  the  world 
have  served  me  as  "  copy,"  it  is  because 
they  are  very  near  and  dear,  and  the 
Modest,  like   more  celebrated  writers,  have 

XV 


My  Preface 

a    way  of   using   their  nearest  and  dearest 
as  "  copy,"  especially  their  dearest. 

In  conclusion,  I  trust  I  have  adequately 
explained,  by  help  of  Alonzo  the  Brave, 
that  it  is  the  privilege  of  the  Modest  to 
make  observations  about  everything  — 
whether  anyone  will  ever  read  them,  why 
— that's  another  matter. 

A.  E.  L. 

Kemptown, 
January,  1906. 


XVI 


My  thanks  are  due  to  the  Editors  of 
The  Fortnightly  Review,  Blackwood's 
Magazine,  and  The  Outlook,  for  their 
kind  permission  to  reprint  some  of  the 
following  pages. 


Contents 

Page 

My  Preface vii 

The  Champagne  Standard     ...  i 
American  Wives  and  EngHsh  House- 
keeping        40 

Kitchen  Comedies 75 

Entertaining 104 

Temporary  Power 130 

The  Extravagant  Economy  of  Women  153 

A  Modern  Tendency       .       .       .       .  171 

A  Plea  for  Women  Architects     .       .  181 

The  Electric  Age 188 

Gunpowder  or  Toothpowder     .       .  196 

The  Pleasure  of  Patriotism    .       .       .  211 

Romance  and  Eyeglasses        .       .       .  220 

The  Plague  of  Music       ....  230 

A  Domestic  Danger 245 

A  Study  of  Frivolity       ....  259 

On  Taking  Oneself  Seriously      .       .  271 

Soft-Soap 290 


A  ^^' 


Champagne  Standard 


The   Champagne   Standard 

THE  other  evening  at  a  charming 
dinner  party  in  London,  and  in 
that  intimate  time  which  is  just  be- 
fore the  men  return  to  the  draw- 
ing room,  I  found  myself  tete-a-tete  with  my 
genial  hostess.  She  leaned  forward  and 
said  with  a  touch  of  anxiety  in  her  pretty 
eyes,  ''Confess  that  I  am  heroic?" 

*'Why?"   I  asked,  somewhat  surprised. 
"To  give  a  dinner  party  without  cham- 
pagne." 

It  was  only  then  that  I  realised  that  we 
had  had  excellent  claret  and  hock  instead 
of  that  fatal  wine  which  represents,  as 
really  nothing  else  does,  the  cheap  pre- 
tence which  is  so  humorously  characteristic 
of  Modern  Society. 

"You  see,"  she  said  with  a  deep  sigh, 
"I  have  a  conscience,  and  I  try  to  reconcile 


The   Champagne   Standard 

a  modest  purse  and  the  hospitality  people 
expect  from  me,  and  that  is  being  very 
heroic  these  days,  and  it  does  so  disagree 
with  me  to  be  heroic!  Besides,  people 
don't  appreciate  your  heroism,  they  only 
think  you  are  mean!" 

I  realised  at  once  the  truth  and  absurdity 
of  what  she  said.  It  does  require  tremen- 
dous heroism  to  have  the  courage  of  a 
small  income  and  to  be  hospitable  within 
your  means,  for  by  force  of  bad  example 
hospitality  grows  dearer  year  by  year. 
The  increasing  extravagance  of  life  is  all 
owing  to  those  millionaires,  and  imitation 
millionaires,  whose  example  is  a  curse  and 
a  menace.  They  set  the  pace,  and  the 
whole  world  tears  after.  Because  solely 
of  their  wealth,  or  supposed  wealth,  they 
are  accepted  everywhere,  and  it  is  they 
who  have  broken  down  the  once  impassable 
barriers  between  the  English  classes,  with 
the  result  that  the  evil  which  before  might 
have  been  confined  to  the  highest,  now  that 
extravagant  imitation  is  universal,  per- 
meates all  ranks  even  to  the  lowest. 

The  old  aristocracy  is  giving  place  to 
the  new  millionaires,  and  it  gladly  bestows 

2 


The   Champagne   Standard 

on  them  Its  friendship  in  exchange  for  the 
privilege  of  consorting  with  untold  wealth 
and  possible  hints  on  how  to  make  it. 
The  dignity  that  hedges  about  royalty  is 
indeed  a  thing  of  the  past,  since  a  bubble 
king  of  finance  is  said  to  have  been  too 
busy  to  vouchsafe  an  audience  to  an 
emperor. 

There  is  -nothing  in  the  modern  world 
so  absolutely  real  and  convincing  and  uni- 
versal as  its  pretence.  It  has  set  itself 
a  standard  of  aims  and  of  living  which 
can  best  be  described  as  the  Champagne 
Standard. 

To  live  up  to  the  champagne  standard 
you  have  to  put  your  best  foot  foremost, 
and  that  foot  is  usually  a  woman's.  It  is 
the  women  who  are  the  arbiters  of  the 
essentially  unimportant  in  life,  the  neglect 
of  which  is  a  crime.  It  is  the  women  who 
have  set  the  champagne  standard.  A  man 
who  lays  a  great  stress  on  the  importance 
of  trivialities  has  either  a  worldly  woman 
behind  him,  or  he  has  a  decided  feminine 
streak   in    his    character. 

Yes,  it  is  the  champagne  standard;  for 
nothing    else    so    accurately    describes    the 

3 


The   Champagne   Standard 

insincere,  pretentious,  and  frothy  striving 
after  one's  little  private  unattainables.  It 
is  aspiration  turned  sour.  Aspirations,  real 
and  true,  keep  the  world  progressive,  make 
of  men  great  men  and  of  women  great 
women;  but  it  is  the  minor  aspirations 
after  what  we  have  not  got,  what  the  acci- 
dent of  circumstances  prevents  us  from 
having,  which  make  of  life  a  weariness 
and  a  profound  disappointment.  Not  the 
tragedies  of  life  make  us  bitter,  but  the 
pin-pricks. 

In  America,  for  instance,  one  does  not 
need  to  be  so  very  old  to  be  aware  of  the 
amazing  changes  in  the  ways  of  living, 
the  result  of  an  unbalanced  increase  of 
wealth  which  has  brought  with  it  the 
imported  complexity  of  older  and  more 
aristocratic  countries.  It  is  the  older  civil- 
isation's retaliation  against  those  bluster- 
ing new  millions  that  have  done  her  such 
incalculable  harm.  Indeed,  it  would  have 
been  well  for  the  great  republic  had  she 
put  an  absolutely  prohibitive  tariff  on  the 
fatal  importation.  The  repubUcan  simpHc- 
ity  of  our  fathers  is  slowly  vanishing  in 
the  blind,  mad  struggle  of  modern  life  — 

4 


The   Champagne   Standard 

in  a  standard  of  living  that  is  based  on 
folly.  It  is  easier  to  imitate  the  old-world 
luxury  than  the  old-world  cultivation  which 
mellows  down  the  crudeness  of  wealth 
and  makes  it  an  accessory  and  not  the 
principal.  Unfortunately  we  judge  a  na- 
tion by  those  of  its  people  who  are  most 
in  evidence,  and  do  it  the  injustice  of  over- 
looking the  best  and  finest  types  among 
its  wealthiest  class:  men  and  women  who 
are  the  first  to  regret  and  disown  what  is 
false  and  unworthy  in  their  social  life. 
We  assume  that  the  blatant,  self-adver- 
tising nouveau  riche,  with  whom  wealth  is 
the  standard  of  success  and  virtue,  is  the 
national  American  type,  instead  of  the 
worst  of  many  types,  whose  bad  example 
is  as  well  recognised  as  a  peril  to  character 
in  America  as  in  other  countries.  Wealth 
in  all  nations  covers  a  multitude  of  sins, 
but  in  America,  to  judge  from  recent  de- 
velopments, it  would  seem  to  cover  crimes. 
Is  not  America  now  passing  through  a 
gigantic  struggle,  the  result  of  the  hideous 
modern  fight  for  wealth,  in  which  the 
common  man  goes  under,  while  the  reck- 
less speculators  who  juggled  with  his  hard- 

5 


The   Champagne   Standard 

earned  savings  use  these  same  savings  to 
fight  justice  to  the  bitter  end  ?  Possibly 
in  no  other  enhghtened  country  in  the 
world  could  such  titanic  frauds,  with  such 
incalculably  far-reaching  effects,  be  so  suc- 
cessfully attempted,  and  that  by  a  hand- 
ful of  men  who  had  in  their  keeping  the 
hopes  of  countless  unsuspecting  people  who 
trusted  to  their  honesty  and  uprightness. 

The  race  for  wealth  in  America  has  be- 
come a  madness  —  a  disease.  It  is  not  a 
love  of  wealth  for  what  it  will  bring  into 
life,  of  beauty  and  goodness,  but  a  love  of 
millions  pure  and  simple.  Who  has  not 
seen  the  effect  of  millions  on  the  average 
human  character  ?  Who  has  not  seen  men 
grow  hard  and  rapacious  in  proportion 
as  their  millions  accumulated  ?  Who  has 
not  seen  the  tendency  to  judge  of  deeds 
and  virtue  by  the  same  false  standard  ? 
A  shady  transaction  performed  by  a  mil- 
lionaire is  condoned  because  he  is  a  million- 
aire and  for  no  other  reason.  Without 
millions  he  would  be  shunned,  but  with 
them  he  is  regarded  with  the  eyes  of  a  most 
benevolent  charity.  It  is  high  time  in- 
deed   that    a    prophet    should    arise    and 

6 


The   Champagne   Standard 

preach  the  simple  Ufe,  but  let  him  not 
preach  it  from  below  upwards.  He  must 
preach  it  to  the  kings  of  the  world  and 
the  billionaires  and  magnates,  and  above 
all  to  the  lady  magnates;  and  let  him 
be  sure  not  to  forget  the  lady  magnates, 
for  they  are  of  the  supremest  importance 
and  set  the  fashion.  Let  him  turn  them 
from  their  complicated  ways.  Now  the 
ways  of  magnates  and  all  who  belong  to 
them  are  very  instructive.  The  well- 
authenticated  story  goes  that  at  a  dinner 
party  the  other  night  at  a  magnate's, — to 
describe  his  indescribable  importance  it  is 
sufficient  to  call  a  man  a  magnate — after 
the  ladies  returned  to  the  drawing-room, 
the  hostess,  her  broad  expanse  tinkling 
and  glittering  with  diamonds,  leaned  back 
in  a  great  tufted  chair  —  just  like  a  throne 
en  deshabille  —  and  shivered  slightly.  Afoot- 
man  went  in  search  of  the  lady's  maid. 

"Frangoise,"  said  the  magnate's  lady 
with  languid  magnificence,  "I  feel  chilly; 
bring  me  another  diamond  necklace." 

Yes,  let  the  prophet  first  convert  the 
magnate  and  the  magnate's  "lady"  to  a 
simpler    life,    then    the    simple     life    will 

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undoubtedly  become  the  fashion,  for  the 
small  fry  will  follow  soon  enough.  Are  we 
not  all  Uke  sheep  ?  And  what  is  the  use 
of  arguing  with  sheep  who  are  leaping 
after  the  bellwether  ? 

There  is  one  safeguard  for  the  American 
republic,  and  that  is,  in  default  of  any 
other  description,  its  ice-water-drinking 
class.  In  its  ice-water-drinking  class  lies 
its  safety,  for  that  represents  the  back- 
bone of  the  repubhc.  It  represents  a  class 
which,  in  spite  of  the  sanitary  drawbacks 
of  ice,  is  a  national  asset.  It  seems  curi- 
ous to  boast  of  the  people  who  drink  ice- 
water,  and  yet  they  represent  American 
life,  simple,  sincere,  and  untouched  by  the 
sophistries  of  the  champagne  standard, 
and  of  a  social  ambition  imported  from 
abroad;  decently  well  off  people,  but  not 
so  well  off  but  that  the  only  heritage  of 
their  sons  will  be  a  practical  education. 
Already  we  are  reaping  the  curse  of  in- 
herited wealth  in  America,  where,  unlike 
England,  it  has  no  duties  to  keep  the 
balance.  The  English  aristocrat  has  in- 
herited political  duties  and  responsibilities 
towards  his  country  which,  as  a  rule,  he 


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faithfully  performs,  and  which  make  of 
him  a  hard-working  man.  Unfortunately 
it  is  the  fashion  for  the  rich  American,  in 
his  race  for  wealth  and  pleasure,  or  out  of 
sheer  indolence,  to  ignore  politics  and  all 
that  is  of  vital  importance  in  national  life. 
And  until  the  best  elements  of  the  nation 
take  a  practical  interest  in  the  government 
of  their  country  and  in  the  administration 
of  its  great  institutions,  the  nation  cannot 
reach  its  highest  development.  Just  now, 
unhappily,  we  have  a  warning  example  of 
what  happens  in  America  to  the  second 
generation  that  inherits  instead  of  makes 
incalculable  wealth.  The  District  Attorney 
of  New  York,  in  a  case  which  has  shaken 
the  foundation  of  all  commercial  rectitude, 
is  quoted  as  saying  of  the  still  young  man 
whom  the  accident  of  inheritance  placed  in 
a  position  of  despotic  power  over  millions 
of  money  and  millions  of  modest  hopes: 
"He  is  an  excellent  type  of  the  second 
generation."  It  is  an  epigram  which  should 
be  a  warning,  as  the  cause  is  a  menace  to 
American  business  methods.  For  did  not 
Emerson  say,  studying  American  ways  more 
than  a  generation  ago  when  American  life 

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was  simpler:  "It  takes  three  generations 
from  shirt-sleeves  to  shirt-sleeves."  But  in 
that  w^arning  there  is  hope,  for  in  the  scatter- 
ing of  wealth  lies  America's  chance  of  salva- 
tion. Plain  living  and  high  thinking  once 
characterised  what  was  best  in  American 
life,  and  the  men  and  women  whose 
thoughts  were  high  and  whose  living  plain 
were  mostly  from  that  simple  ice-water- 
drinking  class  that  has  produced  much  of 
the  nobility  and  patriotism  of  America. 
That  ice-water  has  helped  to  encourage 
dyspepsia,  granted;  but  even  a  great  virtue 
can  have  its  defects. 

How  different  was  the  America  of  our 
childhood!  One  remembers  the  time  when, 
if  the  honoured  guest  was  not  invited  to 
quench  his  thirst  with  ice-water  at  the 
hospitable  board,  he  was,  as  a  great  treat, 
furnished  with  cider.  Claret  was  the  drink 
of  those  adventurous  souls  who  had  tra- 
ditions and  had  been  abroad.  There  was 
no  champagne  standard  —  champagne  only 
graced  the  table  on  solemn,  state  occasions. 
But  in  these  rapid  days  the  hospitable 
people  who  would  once  have  offered  you  a 
serious  glass  of  claret  now  give  you  cham- 

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pagne.  And  because  Smith,  who  can  afford 
it,  gives  you  good  champagne,  Jones,  who 
cannot  afford  it,  gives  you  bad  champagne. 
But  the  bad  and  the  good  champagne  are 
both  tied  up  in  white  cloths,  as  if  they  had 
the  toothache,  so  how  awfully  lucky  it  is 
that  when  the  label  is  fifth-rate,  Mrs.  Jones, 
trusting  in  the  shrouded  shape,  can  offer 
bad  champagne  with  ignorant  satisfaction. 
It  is  interesting  to  study  the  evolution 
of  Jones.  There  was  Jones's  father;  he 
didn't  pretend.  He  lived  in  a  modest 
house  and  kept  one  servant  and  had  a  fat 
bank  account.  Old  Mrs.  Jones,  a  charm- 
ing woman  with  the  manners  of  a  duchess, 
helped  in  the  housework.  Old  Jones  dined 
all  the  days  of  his  life  at  one  o'clock,  and 
had  a  "meat-tea"  at  six.  At  ten  every 
night  he  ate  an  apple,  and  then  he  went  to 
bed  at  ten-thirty.  He  left  a  handsome 
fortune  to  his  children,  who  shared  alike, 
which  made  Jones,  Jr.,  only  comfortably 
off.  Now  young  Jones  and  his  wife  began 
by  following  in  the  footsteps  of  their 
parents,  but  Jones  made  money  in  business, 
and  the  result  was  that  Mrs.  Jones  had 
aspirations.     Aspirations  are  always  a  femi- 

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nine  attribute.  So  Jones  bought  a  fash- 
ionable house,  and  instead  of  one  servant 
Mrs.  Jones  keeps  four;  instead  of  a  joint 
and  pie,  American  pie,  for  which  his 
simple  appetite  longs,  Jones  has  a  six- 
course  dinner  at  eight  which  gives  him 
dyspepsia.  There  is  not  the  ghost  of  a 
doubt  that  Mrs.  Jones  is  too  afraid  of  the 
servants  to  have  a  plain  dinner.  And  it 
is  also  quite  certain  that  she  goes  to  a 
fashionable  church  for  a  social  impetus 
rather  than  divine  uplifting,  and  that  she 
sends  her  only  child,  Petra.  Jones,  to  a 
fashionable  kindergarten  so  that  the  un- 
fortunate child,  who  is  at  an  age  when  she 
ought  to  be  making  mud  pies,  shall  be 
early  launched  into  fashionable  friend- 
ships. Indeed,  one  day,  in  a  burst  of  con- 
fidence, Mrs.  Jones  described  how  Petra 
had  been  snubbed.  It  seems  that  the 
Jones's  child  met  another  small  school- 
fellow in  the  park  in  custody  of  the  last 
thing  in  French  nurses.  Being  only  six 
and  still  unsophisticated  in  the  ways  of 
fashion,  she  rushed  up  to  the  young  patri- 
cian and  suggested  their  playing  together. 
**No,  I  can't  play  with  you,"  the  young 

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patrician  sniffed  —  "for  my  ma  don't  call 
on  your  ma." 

Why  is  it  that  the  pin-pricks  of  life  are 
so  much  harder  to  bear  than  its  tragedies  ? 
Mrs.  Jones  mourned  over  this  snub  to  the 
pride  of  Jones,  but  she  has  no  leisure  to 
observe  that  Jones,  her  husband,  is  mean- 
while growing  old  and  hollow-eyed  with 
care  and  business  worries  and  the  expense 
of  aspiring.  O  champagne  standard!  O 
foolish  Mrs.  Jones! 

As  long  as  we  can  be  snubbed  and  suffer 
what  is  the  use  of  telling  us  that  we  are 
born  free  and  equal  ?  The  only  Hberty  we 
have  is  to  breathe,  and  our  equality  con- 
sists in  that,  plebeian  and  patrician  ahke, 
we  are  permitted  to  take  in  as  much  air 
as  our  infant  lungs  can  accommodate. 
After  that  our  equality  ceases. 

When  Mrs.  Jones  goes  to  the  expense 
of  giving  a  dinner  party,  does  she  only 
invite  her  nearest  and  dearest,  who  are 
acquainted  with  the  extent  of  Jones's 
purse  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  She  invites  most 
of  her  enemies  and  some  strangers.  There 
really  should  be  a  limit  to  the  attention  one 
bestows  on  the  stranger  within  his  gates. 

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There  was  dear  old  Mrs.  Carter  Patter- 
son in  the  days  of  my  youth.  She  was  a 
funny  old  woman  with  a  nose  like  a  beak, 
a  rusty  Chantilly  lace  veil,  and  a  black 
front.  She  stopped  my  mother  in  the 
street  and  explained  that  she  was  in  a  tear- 
ing hurry  as  she  was  about  to  call  on  Mrs. 
Mangles. 

*'Why,  I  thought,'*  and  my  simple  mother 
hesitated,  "I  thought  you  said  you  hated 
her." 

"So  I  do,  my  dear,  so  I  do,  but  I  always 
make  a  point  of  calling  on  my  enemies, 
it's  no  use  caUing  on  one's  friends." 

Who  has  not  studied  the  increasing 
difficulty  of  that  surgical  operation  called 
the  launching  of  a  young  girl  into  modern 
society.  Every  year  it  grows  more  and 
more  difficult  —  society  seems  to  form  a 
kind  of  trust  to  keep  out  the  young  girl, 
at  least  to  judge  from  the  extreme  difficulty 
of  getting  her  in;  and  after  she  is  in,  the 
bitterness  of  it,  and  vexation  of  spirit,  only 
the  young  girl  knows.  The  operation  is 
different  in  different  countries,  though  one 
has  heard  of  the  agonies  endured  in  Eng- 
land during  the  process.     In  America  the 

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ceremony  is  as  expensive  as  a  wedding. 
Because  one  girl  has  had  a  huge  coming- 
out  reception,  that  shakes  her  pa's  cheque 
book  to  its  centre,  why  the  other  girl  must 
have  a  still  bigger  one. 

I  have  been  a  witness  to  the  coming  out 
of  Maria's  only  child  Nancy.  The  educa- 
tion of  Nancy  was  not  so  much  to  teach  her 
anything,  as  to  give  her  the  best  opportunity 
of  making  fashionable  acquaintances.  It 
was  my  privilege  to  study  her  mother's 
heroic  efforts  to  get  Nancy  into  a  fashion- 
able dancing-school,  the  entrance  to  which 
gave  the  fortunate  one  that  supreme  dis- 
tinction which  nothing  else  could.  Twice 
** mother"  failed,  and  she  wept  in  my 
presence  in  sheer  weariness  of  soul,  but 
the  third  time  Nancy  got  in  —  not  trium- 
phantly, but  she  slipped  in  by  some  over- 
sight of  a  fashionable  matron  whose  duty 
it  was  to  keep  out  ineligible  little  children, 
and  "mother"  was  happy,  though  the 
little  ''400"  boys  in  the  round  dances  did 
neglect  Nancy,  who  looked  shyly  and 
wistfully  about,  a  small  melancholy  wall- 
flower, with  her  eyes  swimming  with  tears, 
as  the  little  boys  wisely  footed  it  with  all 

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the  most  eligible  of  the  ''400"  little  girls. 
It  is  very  instructive  to  see  how  early  the 
sense  of  worthy  worldly  wisdom  develops 
itself! 

But  Nancy  had  passed  through  all  these 
stages  of  social  martyrdom,  and  had  com- 
fortably hardened.  Talk  of  the  Spartan 
boy  with  the  fox  nibbling  at  his  vitals! 
There  are  worse  things  than  having  a  fox 
nibble  at  your  vitals  —  Nancy  knew. 

When  I  met  "mother"  the  morning  of 
the  coming-out  of  Nancy,  she  was  nearly 
in  a  condition  of  nervous  prostration. 
The  house  was  in  the  clutches  of  florists 
and  caterers,  and  father  had  fled  to  his 
office  with  the  strict  injunction  not  to 
appear  until  late  in  the  afternoon.  The 
awful  problems  were  two:  Would  Nancy 
get  as  many  bouquets  as  a  rival  "bud"  — 
the  technical  name  for  a  debutante  —  who 
had  reached  the  acme  of  social  distinction 
with  two  hundred  and  thirty-five,  and 
would  enough  people  come  to  make  a 
show? 

"I  shall  die  if  she  doesn't  get  as  many 
bouquets  as  that  Bell  girl,"  "mother" 
cried   in   an   ecstasy   of   nervous   anguish, 

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"but  she  has  only  got  two  hundred  and 
ten/' 

"It's  as  bad  as  getting  married,"  I  cried 
sympathetically. 

"Quite,"  and  Maria  groaned;  "and  with- 
out  any  real  result." 

Between  a  confusion  of  carpet  cover- 
ing and  potted  plants  I  went  upstairs  in 
search  of  the  "bud." 

"Only  two  hundred  and  ten  bouquets," 
she  cried  in  a  tempest  of  discontent,  "and 
Betty  Bell  (the  rival  bud)  is  to  have  a 
five-thousand-dollar  ball  and  I  am  not! 
Mother  says  it  isn't  giving  the  ball  she'd 
mind,  but  it's  people  not  coming.  It's  easy 
enough  sending  out  invitations,  but  the 
mean  thing  is,  people  accept  and  don't 
come.  That's  the  latest  fashion,"  cried 
this  bitter  "bud."  "Mother  said  she'd  be 
mortified  to  death  to  give  a  ball  and  have 
nobody  but  the  waiters  to  drink  up  the 
champagne.  We're  of  just  enough  import- 
ance to  have  our  invitations  accepted  and 
thrown  over  if  anything  better  turns  up." 

Such  was  her  perfectly  justifiable  wail. 

That  afternoon  at  six  I  came  again  in 
my  best  clothes.     A  reception  is  after  all 

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the  simplest  of  social  functions.  It  en- 
tails no  obligations,  and  is  as  democratic 
as  an  electric  car.  It  is  perhaps  one  of 
the  few  functions  in  which  even  the  noblest 
society  may  use  its  elbows,  and  as  a  school 
for  staring,  the  kind  that  sees  through 
the  amplest  human  body  as  if  it  were  mere 
air,  nothing  could  be  more  useful  and 
practical.  It  is  an  interesting  study  to 
observe  how  the  female  lorgnette  is  on 
such  occasions  so  triumphant  an  impedi- 
ment to  sight. 

Well,  the  whole  street  proclaimed  the 
coming-out  of  Nancy.  Carriages  Hned  the 
curbstones  and  an  awning  announced  the 
festive  nature  of  the  occasion.  A  band, 
crowded  into  a  cubby-hole  usually  sacred 
to  "father's"  overcoats  and  umbrellas, 
tried  vainly  to  penetrate  the  talk  —  there 
was  a  dense  crush  of  human  beings,  and 
over  all  there  was  a  mixed  aroma  of  hot 
air,  flowers,  and  coffee.  At  the  top  of  the 
"parlour,"  before  a  bank  of  flowers,  and 
burdened  with  bouquets,  stood  Nancy,  all 
in  expensive  white  simplicity,  her  face 
radiant,  and  supported  by  an  utterly  ex- 
hausted mother.  Six  young  men  who  served 
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as  ushers,  in  collars  tall  enough  for  a  giraffe, 
brought  up  relays  of  friends  to  be  intro- 
duced to  mother  and  *'bud"  —  all  just 
like  a  wedding,  only  the  hero  was  wanting, 
and  for  "mother's"  sake  one  did  wish 
the  occasion  had  had  a  hero.  Last  year's 
*'buds"  were  brought  up  and  examined 
this  year's  **bud,"  and  there  was  a  great 
deal  of  chatter  and  hand-shaking,  of  the 
pump-handle  kind,  and  a  pushing  past 
each  other  of  magnificent  matrons  in  the 
latest  things  in  hats. 

I  was  escorted  up  by  one  of  the  young 
giraffes,  who  solemnly  introduced  me.  A 
mighty  different  *'bud"  this  from  the  one 
of   the    morning. 

''I've  got  two  hundred  and  forty 
bouquets,"  she  whispered  triumphantly; 
and  just  then  I  caught  mother's  weary  eye 
and  knew  as  absolutely  as  one  knows  any- 
thing in  this  uncertain  world  that  "father" 
had  sent  in  thirty.  Really,  there  is  nothing 
so  loving,  so  generous  and  so  weak  in  this 
wide  world  as  an  American  father. 

I  was  swept  on  by  a  crush  of  prosperous 
matrons  accompanied  by  expensively  simple 
daughters  —  the  matrons  making  obviously 

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disparaging  mental  criticisms  about  each 
other's  daughters.  For  real  simple,  un- 
assuming jealousy  there  is  nothing  hke 
rival  mothers!  So  I  was  pushed  into  the 
dining-room  where  the  chief  ornaments 
were  four  Gibson  girls  in  party  frocks  who, 
at  a  flower-laden  centre-table,  in  the  mel- 
low light  of  rose-shaded  candles,  dispensed 
glances,  coffee,  smiles,  and  tea,  and  other 
frivolous  afternoon  refreshments.  They  had 
the  best  of  it,  these  beautiful  young  things 
at  the  table,  especially  when  they  could 
annex  an  occasional  man. 

At  half  past  seven  the  last  visitor  had 
gone,  the  function  was  over  and  Nancy 
was  "out,"  and  '* mother"  sat  drearily  on  a 
couch  which  had  the  demoralised  air  of 
furniture  horribly  out  of  place.  Every- 
thing drooped  except  those  stalwart  Ameri- 
can beauty  roses,  so  costly,  so  splendid,  so 
hard,  and  so  unromantic.  O  national  flower 
of  Americans! 

I  caught  a  glimpse  of  "father"  vanish- 
ing down  the  front  steps  on  his  way  to  the 
club.  Nancy  had  flung  herself  into  a  big 
deep  chair,  and  from  this  point  she  looked 
coldly  at  "mother." 

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"The  Perkinses  did  not  come,"  was  all 
she  said,  but  "mother"  gave  a  start  and 
groaned.  The  Perkinses  represented  the 
bloom  of  the  occasion,  and  the  Perkinses 
had  not  come.  There  was  nothing  further 
to  be  said  —  Maria  did  remark  that  it  was 
as  expensive  as  a  wedding.  "And  to  think 
it  isn't  dinner  time  yet,"  she  added  drearily. 

"At  any  rate  Nancy  is  'out,'"  I  said. 

"But  it  was  horribly  expensive." 

"Well,  then,  what  did  you  have  all  this 
expense  and  bother  for  ? " 

"One  has  to  do  it,"  she  cried  in  stony 
despair;   "it's   our   standard — " 

"Champagne  standard,"  I  interrupted. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean."  Maria 
has  all  the  virtues,  but  no  sense  of  humour. 

"Then,  for  goodness'  sake,  why  have  her 
come  out  at  all  ? " 

Maria  shuddered  and  looked  cautiously 
about.     Nancy  had  vanished. 

"I'd  die  of  mortification  if  she  didn't 
marry.  I  won't  have  her  turn  on  me  and 
say  I  hadn't  given  her  a  chance." 

"But,  Maria,  you  married  your  good 
and  prosperous  Samuel  without  coming 
out.     That  didn't  frighten  him  away!  The 

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highest  standard  your  parents  ever  aspired 
to  was  cider,  and  that  only  on  state  occa- 
sions." 

"That  is  all  changed,"  said  my  unhappy 
friend.     "We  have  got  to — " 

"Pretend;  that's  just  it,  Maria!  But 
why  don't  you  give  up  pretending  and  be 
happy  ?  Did  our  parents  ever  pretend  ? 
They  didn't.  Think  of  your  father's  simple 
home  and  his  big  bank  account,  and  then 
think  of  your  Samuel  with  all  his  expenses 
and  his  cares." 

But  Maria  was  not  to  be  convinced  by 
argument  —  she  was  completely  crushed 
by  the  Perkinses  not  having  come,  and  she 
declared  obstinately  that  her  supreme  duty 
in  life  was  to  get  Nancy  married  —  well 
if  possible,  but  at  any  rate  married. 

Maria  is  only  a  type,  but  she  stands  for 
aspirations  in  the  wrong  place,  and  she  is 
worn  out  with  it.  She  has  many  virtues 
—  that  is,  she  has  no  vices.  Her  whole 
soul  is  wrapped  up  in  Nancy.  Nancy  is 
her  religion.  She  believes  in  Nancy,  though 
she  never  took  her  Samuel  seriously.  She 
married  him  in  the  simple  period  of  her 

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existence,  and  by  the  time  she  began  to 
aspire  she  had  other  ideals,  and  Samuel 
was  more  of  a  bore  to  her  than  an  ideal. 
Samuel  did  not  take  to  her  new  aspira- 
tions as  readily  as  she.  Men  never  do. 
Nancy  constituted  her  romance;  and  yet 
she  was  an  impartial  mother,  for  mothers 
can  be  divided  in  two  classes,  those  who 
are  too  partial  and  those  who  are  impartial. 
Her  mission  in  Hfe  was  to  marry  off  Nancy. 

"I'd  rather  she'd  be  married  unhappily 
than  not  at  all,"  she  said  to  me  one  day 
when  I  saw  her  again.  "A  real  unhappi- 
ness  is  more  healthy  to  bear  than  an  imag- 
inary one." 

Nancy  herself  furnished  the  particulars 
of  her  own  private  creed. 

"I'd  rather  be  married  even  if  I  were 
unhappy.  It's  my  own  unhappiness,  and 
I  want  my  own  whatever  it  is." 

I  suggested  that  there  were  other  aims 
in  life  than  getting  married. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  "but  I  haven't 
any.  I've  been  brought  up  to  that.  Most 
girls  are,  only  they  don't  tell.  I  haven't 
to  earn  my  living  and  I  haven't  any  talent 
for  anything.     If  I  don't  marry,  Ma'll  be 

23 


The   Champagne   Stand ard 

mortified  to  death  and  she'll  show  it  and 
that'll  make  me  mad.  Father  won't  care 
and  he  won't  notice  that  I'm  growing  older, 
though  we  girls  don't  grow  old  prettily. 
We  get  pinched,  and  our  Httle  hands — for 
we  have  little  hands  —  grow  clawy,  and 
our  hair  gets  thin  at  the  temples,  and  we 
have  too  much  gold  in  our  front  teeth.  Of 
course  we  are  real  pretty  when  we  are 
happy.  But  think  of  spending  life  seeing 
father  go  to  sleep  after  dinner,  and  mother 
playing  patience  —  ugh!  I've  told  mother 
if  she  doesn't  take  me  abroad  I'll  go  slum- 
ming. There's  no  chance  here.  Half  the 
men  are  too  busy  making  money  to  get 
married  and  the  others  are  afraid." 

"So  this  is  your  education,"  I  said  later 
on  to  Maria;  "I  am  glad  you  have  only 
one  child." 

**So  am  I,"  said  Maria  wearily,  "for 
two  would  kill  me." 

Then  in  a  burst  of  confidence:  "She 
hangs  fire.  She  isn't  strikingly  plain  nor 
strikingly  beautiful,  one's  about  as  good 
as  the  other.  She  has  no  accomplish- 
ments, and  her  golf  is  only  so  so.  She 
isn't  fast,  nor  loud,  nor  smart.  She  is  just 
24 


The   Champagne   Standard 

an  average  girl  and,"  Maria  cried  in  vexa- 
tion, "there  are  such  heaps  of  them.  The 
luncheons  and  dinners  and  theatre  parties 
I  have  given  without  resuk!  It  is  so  tire- 
some for  her  always  to  be  bridesmaid. 
So  we're  going  abroad.  Father  is  willing 
to  live  at  the  Club.  Our  men  are  too 
comfortable  to  get  married.  It's  simply 
wicked!" 

"Maria,"  I  said  from  my  inmost  con- 
viction, "you  have  manoeuvred,  with  the 
result  that  you  have  frightened  off  the 
eligibles  —  struggling  eligibles,  and  those 
are  sometimes  the  best.  But  what  struggler 
would  dare  to  ask  a  champagne-standard 
girl  to  keep  his  "flat".?  It's  flats  these 
days.  He  wouldn't  think  of  dragging  a 
white-tuUed  angel  from  a  palatial  residence 
to  a  flat  and  a  joint!  You  have  frightened 
off^  the  young  men.  Marriage  is  getting 
out  of  fashion,  and  so  are  the  comforts  of 
a  home.  It's  all  your  fault,  you  cham- 
pagne-standard mothers!" 

Such  was  the  coming-out  of  Nancy. 

Now  in  my  young  days  there  was  cer- 
tainly no  formal  coming-out.  All  I  re- 
member is  that  one  day  I  still  wore  my 

25 


The  Champagne  Stand ard 

hair  in  two  pigtails,  and  the  next  day  old 
Mrs.  Barnett  Pendexter  called.  She  was 
a  fumbly  old  woman  with  her  fingers,  and 
by  accident  —  my  sisters  always  declared 
—  she  left  two  cards  instead  of  one.  The 
fatal  result  was  that  my  pigtails  were 
pinned  up  and  I  was  dragged  out  by  my 
mother  when  she  made  calls,  for  she  de- 
clared, being  socially  learned,  that  now  I 
was  undoubtedly  out.  It  was  also  a  httle 
surgical  operation  in  a  minor  way,  but  com- 
pared to  these  days  how  simple  and  how 
inexpensive. 

If  one  were  asked  which  of  the  passions 
is  the  greatest  force  in  modern  Society,  one 
could  safely  reply  "jealousy."  Jealousy 
makes  the  world  go  round.  Don't  we  want 
what  all  our  neighbours  have,  and  don't 
we  want  it  with  all  our  might  and  main  ? 
If  we  want  it  badly  enough  crime  will  not 
stand  in  the  way  of  getting  it.  Is  it  not  at 
the  bottom  of  most  of  our  defalcations, 
embezzlements,  and  commercial  dishonesty 
in  general  ^  The  bank  president  who  bor- 
rows the  bank  funds  for  his  private  use, 
the  cashier  who  falsifies  the  books,  the 
little  clerk  who  embezzles  as  the  result  of 
26 


The   Champagne   Standard 

expensive  tastes, — are  they  not  all  the  re- 
sults of  the  falsity  and  extravagance  of 
modern  life  ?  Compared  to  the  judicious 
business  man  who  keeps  just  within  the 
border  line  that  saves  him  from  the  criminal 
law,  and  who  lays  traps  for  his  credulous 
fellow-creatures  in  the  shape  of  alluring 
companies,  the  pickpocket,  who  runs  some 
little  risk,  is  a  blameless  and  worthy  charac- 
ter. The  champagne  standard  is  the  whole 
world's  measure,  and  even  justice  bows  to 
it  when  it  interprets  its  laws  for  the  rich 
and  the  poor.  A  company  promoter,  who 
in  the  course  of  his  career  has  wrecked 
thousands  of  lives,  can,  if  he  is  only  rich 
enough,  consort  with  the  noblest  and  most 
virtuous  of  the  land;  but  of  course  he  must 
be  rich  enough.  Deny  it  who  can  ?  Be 
rich  enough  and  you  are  forgiven  all 
crimes.     O  Champagne  Standard! 

Last  year  a  certain  deceased  miUionaire 
was  tried  in  London  for  gigantic  frauds, 
and  all  the  newspapers  described  how 
pleasantly  he  greeted  his  friends  when  he 
entered  the  court  and  took  his  seat  behind 
his  counsel.  Positively  not  a  bit  proud. 
There  was  also  a  sympathetic  description 

27 


The   Champagne  Stand ard 

of  his  clothes!  The  moral  is,  be  a  scoun- 
drel on  a  magnificent  scale  and  you  are 
still  respected;  indeed,  you  even  become  a 
hero  in  some  people's  eyes.  Justice  being 
blindfolded  cannot  see,  which  is  a  great 
convenience.  Besides,  are  we  not  taught 
that  God  helps  those  who  help  themselves  ? 

In  America  there  is  no  aristocracy  yet, 
but  God  help  it  when  the  time  arrives,  for 
it  will  be  an  aristocracy  based  on  the  most 
unworthy  of  foundations  —  money.  As  for 
romantic  traditions,  well,  it  will  take  several 
centuries  to  weave  a  halo  of  romance 
around  a  pork-packer,  a  petroleum  mag- 
nate, a  railroad  wrecker,  or  the  company 
promoters  who  flourish  as  the  green  bay 
tree.  In  centuries  they  may  arrive  at  the 
dignity  of  being  ancestors  —  at  present 
they  are  just  what  they  are,  and  are  to  be 
judged  accordingly. 

There  is  a  growing  mania  in  America 
these  days  for  ancestors.  It  is  a  luxury 
which  can  be  indulged  in  only  after  people 
have  accumulated  money.  If  you  are  grub- 
bing for  your  daily  bread  it  is  a  matter 
of  profound  indiff^erence  to  you  where  you 
came  from,  seeing  what  you  have  reached 
28 


The   Champagne   Standard 

is  so  unsatisfactory.  But  when  your  bank- 
book bursts  with  deposits  and  your  greed 
for  money  is  partly  satisfied,  it  is  natural 
that  you  should  look  out  for  new  fields 
for  your  aspirations.  So  wealthy  Ameri- 
cans are  just  now  very  busy  unearthing 
ancestors,  in  spite  of  not  becoming  parents, 
and  getting  their  genealogical  tree  planted, 
and  rummaging  in  the  dust  of  the  past  for 
possible  forefathers,  and  buying  family 
portraits.  Yes,  there  is  a  great  trade  in 
family  portraits  —  the  dingier  the  better. 
At  any  rate  it  keeps  the  pot  boiling  for 
many  a  worthy  painter,  and  that  is  some- 
thing. Not  that  one  has  a  rooted  aversion 
to  ancestors  —  they  are  not  to  be  despised 
if  they  leave  you  an  honourable  name,  a 
nice  old  estate,  and  cash  and  some  brains, 
but  there  are  ancestors  of  whom  the  less 
said  the  better,  and  whose  only  legacy 
would  appear  to  be  a  slanting  forehead,  a 
weak  chin,  and  a  tendency  to  unlimited 
viciousness. 

The  Herald's  College  could  tell  many 
a  queer  story  of  our  sturdy  republicans 
in  search  of  their  forbears.  An  EngHsh 
woman  told  me  that  a  New  York  family 

29 


The   Champagne   Standard 

had  annexed  a  crusading  forefather  of 
her  own,  as  well  as  one  who  had  had  his 
head  chopped  off,  and  to  whom  they  had 
no  more  right  than  the  grocer  round  the 
corner.  She  acknowledged  that  they  were 
a  pretty  bad  lot  (the  ancestors),  but  she 
objected  to  have  strangers  meddle  with 
them.  "You  are  funny  republicans,"  she 
added  genially,  "coming  over  here  and 
grabbing  our  ancestors." 

Now  there  is  nothing  so  frank  as  a  frank 
Englishwoman.  "What  is  the  use  of  cele- 
brated ancestors,"  she  added,  "if  your 
whole  present  family  are  as  dull  as  ditch- 
water  and  bore  you  to  distraction?  I'd 
swap  off  my  crusading  ancestor  and  my 
chopped-off-head  one  any  time  for  a  cousin 
with  brains.  But  mind  you,  I  don't  want 
your  American  millionaires  grabbing  'em 
without  leave." 

There  are  the  Bedfords  of  New  York. 
Susan  and  I  went  to  school  together. 
Hitherto  she  has  put  on  no  airs  with  me, 
for  I  know  the  family  traditions,  and  that 
her  excellent  father  began  life  as  a  cobbler. 
Then  he  forsook  cobbling  and  started  a 
corset  manufactory,  which  was  a  distin- 
30 


The   Champagne   Standard 

guished  success  because  he  had  invented  a 
bone  so  like  the  whale's  that  even  that 
clever  fish  could  not  have  proved  it  wasn't 
his;  and  the  deception  made  the  old  man's 
fortune.  Thereupon  he  rose  superior  and 
soared  from  corsets  to  real  estate,  and  in 
real  estate  he  made  what  was  briefly  de- 
scribed as  "mints."  It  was  in  the  corset 
period  that  Susan  married  Joe  Bedford 
who  was  a  drummer  in  the  business,  and 
though  he  retired  from  corsets  and  went 
into  real  estate  along  with  his  father-in- 
law,  Susan  was  always  conscious  that  he 
could  never  accommodate  himself  to  the 
grandeur  of  his  new  life.  She  had  to  do 
all  the  aspiring,  and  it  was  she  who  passed 
a  sponge  over  their  previous  existence,  and 
every  time  I  saw  them  in  New  York  she 
had  added  a  new  lustre  to  their  glory. 
The  last  time  the  door  was  opened  to  me 
by  a  footman,  brooded  over,  as  it  were,  by 
the  very  noblest  kind  of  English  butler.  I 
saw  at  once  that  the  whole  family  were 
afraid  to  death  of  him.  But  in  spite  of 
her  grandeur,  Susan  herself  saw  me  down- 
stairs to  the  front  door,  in  the  American 
fashion,  though  conscious  of  the  profound 

31 


The   Champagne   Standard 

and  stony  disapproval  of  the  English  butler. 
As  I  came  opposite  the  hat  rack  I  caught 
sight  of  a  satin  banner  covered  with  caba- 
listic characters  floating  gently  over  Joe's 
modest  bowler  that  swung  from  a  peg. 

*'Our  coat  of  arms,"  Susan  explained 
by  way  of  introduction.  "Just  come  home. 
It  cost  a  great  deal;  everything  costs  so 
much.  We  have  the  same  arms  as  the 
Duke  of  Bedford.  It  is  pleasant  to  have 
a  duke  in  the  family." 

"Since  when?"  I  asked,  and  stared  in 
astonishment. 

"I  found  them  in  the  dictionary  six 
months  ago.  I  had  it  done  at  Tiffany's. 
It  looks  so  stylish  on  the  plates  and  the 
writing  paper." 

"Come  in  here,  Susan,"  and  I  led  her 
into  her  own  parlour,  for  I  did  not  wish  to 
lower  her  in  the  estimation  of  that  noble 
being  who  was  preparing  his  mighty  mind 
to  show  me  out.  "Listen  to  me;  you  and 
Joe  haven't  any  more  to  do  with  the  Duke 
of  Bedford  than  the  cat's  foot.  Besides, 
his  name  isn't  Bedford  but  Russell.  For 
goodness'  sake  don't  make  such  an  idiot 
of  yourself." 

32 


The   Champagne   Standard 

"I  guess,"  and  Susan  was  deeply  of- 
fended, *'I  guess  the  young  man  at  Tiffany's 
knows  more  about  it  than  you  do.  He 
engraves  for  the  first  families,  and  he  said 
it  was  all  right." 

It  was  quite  recently,  too,  that  I  crossed 
from  Boston  with  three  gentle  female  pil- 
grims in  search  of  an  ancestor.  The 
youngest  was  nearly  seventy,  and  \ye  were 
barely  out  of  sight  of  that  famous  tail  of 
land  called  "Cape  Cod"  when  they  told 
me  their  simple  story.  They  came  from 
Cape  Cod  and  their  homestead  stood  on  a 
sandhill  and  faced  the  sea.  A  long  strag- 
gling street  up  a  sand  bank  culminated  in 
a  meeting-house  with  a  steeple  as  sharp  as 
a  toothpick.  They  were  innocent  and 
graphic  old  ladies  and  they  had  only  two 
vivid  interests  in  life;  one  was  a  Devonshire 
ancestor  supposed  to  have  died  three  hun- 
dred years  before,  and  the  other,  two  cats 
called  respectively  Priscilla  and  John  Alden. 
The  ancestor  was  the  one  romance  of  their 
placid  lives,  and  it  became  a  question  of 
going  to  find  him,  now  or  never;  so  here 
they  were.  They  had  turned  the  key  in 
the  lock  of  their  Cape  Cod  homestead  and 


The    Champagne   Standard 

bidden  a  long  farewell  to  Priscilla  and  John 
Alden,  and  as  they  described  their  grief  I 
saw  their  three  pairs  of  benevolent  eyes 
fill  with  tears. 

**The  sweetest  cats  that  ever  breathed," 
said  the  oldest,  with  a  face  like  a  benedic- 
tion. 

"What  did  you  do  with  them?"  I  asked 
after  a  sympathetic  pause. 

"We  chloroformed  them,"  said  the  dear 
old  thing  whose  face  was  like  a  benediction. 

I  offered  up  an  involuntary  smile  to  the 
manes  of  these  deceased  martyrs,  Priscilla 
and  John  Alden,  and  I  am  absolutely  sure 
the  ancestor  wasn't  worth  the  sacrifice. 

Fortunately  or  unfortunately,  the  cham- 
pagne standard,  like  hotel  cooking,  has  no 
nationality.  It  is  everywhere,  and  one 
studies  it  according  to  one's  experience, 
but  it  is  undoubtedly  the  curse  of  an  age 
that  only  judges  of  success  by  material 
results.  It  is  above  everything  a  menace 
to  character. 

Modern  life  is  the  apotheosis  of  triviali- 
ties, and  perhaps  there  is  nothing  more 
curious  and  melancholy  than  to  observe 
their  exaggerated  importance  to  the  world 
34 


The   Champagne   Standard 

in  general.  One  asks  what  is  the  use  of 
such  childish  fretting  to  people  confronted 
by  tragic  realities.  What  is  the  use  of 
snubbing  any  one  as  if  we  were  immortal  ? 
The  truth  is,  each,  in  his  own  estimation, 
is  immortal.  Who  thinks  of  dying  t  Why, 
if  we  expected  to  die  at  once,  we  certainly 
would  not  snub  any  one,  and,  in  the  face 
of  so  tragic  a  probability,  we  would  not 
notice  being  snubbed.  And  yet  there  is 
absolutely  nothing  so  absolutely  certain  as 
death,  before  which  every  pretence,  every 
ignoble  aspiration,  every  sordid  ambition, 
stands  naked  and  futile  and,  in  some  other 
world  possibly,  ashamed. 

But  one  cannot  help  wondering  what 
kind  of  a  blissful  place  the  world  would  be 
without  the  champagne  standard.  How 
good  and  honest  we  should  be  if  we  didn't 
pretend  —  how  easy  it  would  be  to  live! 
Are  not  most  of  the  trials  of  life,  apart 
from  its  tragedies,  its  results  ?  Most  of 
our  harrowing  anxieties  usually  have  their 
rise  in  aiming  at  what  is  beyond  our  reach. 
And  yet  what,  in  the  name  of  common 
sense,  what  is  it  all  for  ?  What  is  the  use 
of  pretending  ?     What  is  the  use  of  doing 

35 


The   Champagne   Stand ard 

things  badly  when  it  is  so  much  easier  not 
to  do  them  at  all  ? 

Yes,  indeed,  the  greatest  heroism  in 
these  days  is  to  have  the  courage  of  one's 
income.  It  is  possibly  a  little  awkward  at 
first,  but  what  a  relief  to  be  able  to  say 
simply,  **I  can't  afford  it,"  and  not  lose 
caste!  But  Modern  Society  is  ruled  over 
by  "Appearances."  Appearances  are  a 
kind  of  Juggernaut  which  requires  our 
happiness  and  peace  and  contentment  as  a 
daily  sacrifice  —  but  not  the  wise  and 
honourable  appearances,  but  the  little, 
mean,  false  ones,  and  those  are  the  most 
common. 

One  is  inclined  to  think,  however,  that 
even  the  champagne  standard  may  yet 
find  its  Nemesis.  For  if  the  world  goes 
on  at  its  present  rate  all  its  wealth  will  in 
time  be  swallowed  up  by  the  Trusts,  and 
the  Trusts  will  in  turn  be  swallowed  up  by 
the  mighty  maws  of  the  few  whom  God,  in 
his  righteous  wrath,  permits  to  plunder  the 
earth,  just  as  He  once  permitted  a  deluge 
for  the  regeneration  of  the  world.  And  the 
blessed  result  will  be  that  the  whole  wide 
world,    being   as   poor   as   the   traditional 

36 


The   Champagne   Standard 

church  mouse,  will  come  to  its  senses,  and 
the  first  thing  that  will  happen  will  be  the 
abolishing  of  the  champagne  standard. 
So  herein  lies  the  world's  salvation,  to  be 
saved  it  must  be  ruined;  and  for  the  first 
time  Trusts  may  be  looked  upon  in  the 
light  of  the  benevolent  saviours  of  man- 
kind. When  we  are  all  as  poor  as  the  most 
plausible  of  them  can  make  us,  and  that  is 
saying  a  good  deal,  behold  we  shall  then 
finally  cease  to  pretend. 

Of  course  each  of  us  has  his  own  ideal 
of  the  millennium,  but  with  multi-million- 
aires setting  the  pace,  and  all  the  rest  of 
the  world  racing  after,  it  must  be  agreed 
that  the  millennium  is  not  yet.  But  when 
it  does  come,  there  will  be  no  more  cham- 
pagne standard,  and  each  person  will  be 
judged  after  his  honest  value  and  not  his 
purse.  If  he  has  a  noble  soul  nobody 
will  mind  if  he  is  a  bit  shabby,  and  if  he  is 
a  man  of  brains  he  may  even  live  at  the 
wrong  end  of  the  town.  In  that  happy 
day  everybody  will  have  the  courage  of  his 
income,  no  matter  how  small,  and  when 
one  is  shown  hospitality  it  will  not  be 
according  to  the  champagne  standard,  but 

37 


The   Champagne  Standard 


according  to  a  standard  of  honest  kindness; 
and  no  matter  how  simple  it  is,  if  it  is  only 
a  crust  of  bread,  no  one  will  criticise,  and 
no  one  will  apologise.  If  in  that  blissful 
time  Jones  dines  in  a  cut-away,  why  not  ? 
And  yet  is  it  not  true  in  these  days  that 
Jones's  fine  character  is  often  enough 
overlooked  in  a  disapproving  contempla- 
tion of  his  coat  ? 

However,  the  millennium  has  not  arrived, 
and  the  simpler  hfe,  though  the  fashion  as 
a  subject  for  sermons,  is  certainly  not 
practised  —  as  yet. 

Recently  a  king  of  finance  gave  a  great 
musical  function  —  the  gambols  of  the 
rich  and  great  are  always  called  functions. 
There  were  so  many  biUionaires  present 
that  a  modest  millionaire  was  quite  out 
of  it.  Everything  was  of  the  costliest,  the 
lighting  was  entirely  by  radium,  and  the 
music  provided  was  of  an  expense  supremely 
worthy  of  even  the  consideration  of  billion- 
aires. The  very  greatest  violinist  had  been 
induced,  by  the  offer  of  a  small  fortune,  to 
play,  and  indeed,  while  he  played,  the  host 
and  another  billionaire  intimate  amused 
themselves  calculating  the  money  value  of 

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The   Champagne   Standard 

each  tone  at  the  rate  the  great  artist  de- 
manded for  playing.  Just  as  they  finished, 
and  he  finished,  and  a  languid  murmur 
signified  the  approval  of  the  glittering 
audience,  the  young  daughter  of  the  bil- 
lionaire host,  who  had,  apparently,  not 
received  the  last  poUsh  in  the  school  of 
unutterable  wealth,  put  an  entreating  hand 
on  her  father's  arm: 

"Do  please  introduce  me,"  and  she 
mentioned  a  very  famous  name,  "he  does 
play  so  divinely." 

"My  child,"  and  the  magnate,  who  had 
started  life  peddling  tripe,  spoke  with 
haughty  disfavour  and  drew  his  eyebrows 
together  in  a  frown,  "we  pay  such  people, 
but  we  don't  know  them." 

O  Champagne  Standard! 


39 


American    Wives  and  English 
Housekeeping 

THE  CLEVER  woman  who  wrote 
American  Wives  and  English  Hus- 
bands, put  her  Calif ornian  heroine 
in  a  position  in  which  the  one 
problem  she  was  not  required  to  solve  was 
English  housekeeping.  She  might  break 
her  heart  over  her  EngHsh  husband,  but 
the  author  does  not  add  to  our  pangs  by 
relating  how  her  American  bride,  having 
first  studied  the  peculiarities  of  her  English- 
man, next  varied  her  soul's  trials  by  *'wrest- 
Hng"  with  the  lower  but  equally  irritating 
problems  prepared  for  her  by  the  English 
tradesmen.  Under  which  general  term  are 
included  all  the  male  and  female  creatures 
who,  having  helped  to  set  up  a  brand-new 
household,  immediately  proceed  to  hinder 
it  from  running. 

The  problem  of  English  husbands  I  leave 
to  more  gifted  pens,  but  I  may  perhaps  be 
permitted  to  tell  what  the  American  woman 
40 


American    Wives 


experiences, who,  having  "pulled  up  stakes," 
plants  herself  on  English  soil.  This  era 
of  international  marriages  is  not  at  all 
confined  to  the  daughters  of  American  mil- 
lionaires who  can  afford  the  luxury  of  Eng- 
Hsh  dukes.  Nor,  in  giving  my  experiences, 
do  I  address  the  prospective  Anglo-Ameri- 
can duchess,  who  would  not  be  likely  to 
spend  several  sleepless  nights,  trying  to 
decide  whether  she  should  or  should  not 
take  her  carpets  or  the  "ice-chest."  How- 
ever, it  is  well  to  give  one  little  word  of 
advice  to  the  American  girl  proposing  to 
turn  herself  into  an  Enghsh-woman;  and 
that  is,  she  must  be  very  sure  of  her 
Englishman,  because  for  him  she  gives  up 
friends  and  country,  and  he  has  to  be  that 
and  more  to  her. 

America  has  a  bad  reputation  for  being 
a  very  expensive  place  in  which  to  live. 
The  large  earnings  are  offset,  it  is  said,  by 
expenses  out  of  proportion  to  the  wages. 
Both  facts  are  exaggerated;  and,  in  contrast- 
ing English  and  American  housekeeping, 
one  of  the  first  reasons,  I  have  decided, 
why  English  living  flies  away  with  money 
is  that  the  currency  itself  tends  to  expense. 

41 


The    Champagne    Standard 

To  start  with,  the  English  unit  of  money 
value  is  a  penny  —  the  American  a  cent, 
but  observe  that  a  penny  is  two  cents  in 
value.  I  am  asked  eightpence  for  a  pound 
of  tomatoes  ;  I  think  "how  cheap"  until 
I  make  a  mental  calculation,  "sixteen  cents, 
that's  dear."  It  is  the  guileless  penny 
which,  like  the  common  soldier,  does  the 
mighty  executions  and  swells  the  bill.  One 
looks  on  the  penny  as  a  cent,  and  that  is 
the  keynote  of  the  expense  of  living  in 
London. 

To  go  farther  into  the  coinage:  there  is 
the  miserable  half-crown  —  it  is  more  than 
half-a-doUar,  and  yet  it  only  represents  a 
half-dollar  in  importance.  "What  shall 
I  give  him  ? "  I  ask  piteously  of  my  Eng- 
hshman  when  a  fee  is  in  question.  "Oh, 
half-a-crown,"  is  his  reply.  I  obey,  and 
mourn  over  twelve-and-a-half  cents  thrown 
away  with  no  credit  to  myself. 

Poor  English  people  who  have  no  dollar! 
Don't  talk  of  four  shillings!  Four  shillings 
are  a  shabby  excuse  for  two  self-righteous 
half-crowns.  Oh,  for  a  good  simple  dollar! 
Five  dollars  make  a  sovereign,  roughly 
speaking  —  that  wretched  and  delusive  coin 
42 


American    Wives 


which  is  no  sooner  changed  into  shillings 
and  half-crowns  than  it  disappears  like 
chaff  before  the  wind.  Now  good  dollars 
would  repose  in  one's  purse,  either  in  silver 
or  greenbacks  (very  dirty,  but  never  mind!), 
and  demand  reflection  before  spending. 

Think  of  the  importance  of  a  man's  sal- 
ary multiplied  by  dollars!  The  wealth  of 
France  is  undoubtedly  due  to  her  coinage 
— francs  are  the  money  of  a  thrifty  middle- 
class  —  the  English  coinage  is  intended  for 
peers  of  the  realm  and  paupers.  A  hundred 
pounds  a  year  is  not  a  vast  income,  but 
how  much  better  it  sounds  in  dollars  — 
five  hundred  dollars;  if,  however,  you  multi- 
ply it  by  francs,  twenty-five  hundred  francs, 
why  it  sounds  noble!  Count  an  English- 
man's income  by  hundreds,  and  it  does 
seem  shabby!  Dollars,  when  you  have  four 
thousand  to  spend,  represent  a  value  quite 
out  of  proportion  to  the  eight  hundred 
pounds  they  really  are. 

Change  your  English  coinage  —  don't 
have  half-crowns  or  sovereigns,  but  nice 
simple  dollars  (call  them  by  any  other 
name  if  you  are  too  proud  to  adopt  dol- 
lars), and  see  the  new  prosperity  that  will 
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The   Champagne  Standard 

dawn  on  the  middle-classes.  A  little  trades- 
man struggling  along  on  one  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds  a  year  will  feel  like  a  capitalist 
on  seven  hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  This 
is  not  straying  from  the  subject,  for  it  was 
my  first  observation  in  English  economics. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  days  have  passed 
in  America  for  the  making  of  sudden  and 
great  fortunes,  nor  are  the  streets  paved 
with  gold.  The  lady  from  County  Cork 
does  not  step  straight  from  the  steerage 
into  a  Fifth  Avenue  drawing-room  (unless 
by  way  of  the  kitchen),  but  there's  work, 
and  there  are  good  wages;  and  if  the  lady 
from  County  Cork  and  her  brothers  and 
cousins  would  work  as  hard  in  Ireland  as 
they  do  in  the  United  States,  that  perplex- 
ing island  would  bloom  like  a  rose.  That 
their  fences  are  always  tumbling  down, 
even  over  there,  and  their  broken  windows 
stuffed  with  rags,  is  only  an  amiable  national 
trait  to  which  the  Irish  are  loyal  even  in 
America,  just  to  remind  them  of  home. 

"Everything  is  cheaper  in  England,"  they 

all  said  when  the  decisive  step  whether  to 

take  or  leave  the    contents    of  our    large 

house   had   to    be    taken.     "It   won't    be 

44 


American    Wives 


worth  packing,  taking,  and  storing.  Send 
everything  to  auction." 

That  was  the  advice.  I  compromised, 
and  one  day  half  of  the  dear  famiUar 
household  gods  were  trundled  off  to  be 
sold  —  alas!  and  the  elect  were  left  to  be 
packed.  Every  American  house  has  a 
grass-grown,  fenced-in  space  at  the  back 
of  the  house  called  a  yard,  for  the  drying 
and  bleaching  of  the  laundry.  Ours  was 
invaded  by  three  decent  men  and  piles 
of  pine  boards,  and  then  the  making  of 
cases  and  the  packing  began. 

The  packing  was  contracted  for.  The 
chief  of  the  firm  came,  looked  through  each 
room,  estimated,  and  gave  us  the  price  of 
the  whole  work  completed  and  placed  on 
the  freight  steamer.  One  is  told  that  the 
English  are  the  best  packers  in  the  world, 
but  I  have  had  more  damage  done  in  two 
cases  sent  from  Bristol  to  London  than  in 
eighty  cases  sent  from  Boston  to  Liverpool. 
The  three  men  worked  three  weeks,  and 
then  took  all  the  cases  out  of  the  house  and 
put  them  on  the  freight  steamer,  and  the 
price  of  all  this  wonderful  packing  was 
about  forty  pounds.  What  will  surprise 
45 


The   Champagne   Standard 

an  English  person  is  that  not  one  of  these 
men  expected  a  fee.  My  one  ceaseless 
regret  is  that  I  did  not  take  everything, 
from  the  kitchen  poker  to  the  mouse-trap. 

On  the  arrival  of  our  eighty  cases  in 
London,  they  were  received  by  the  ware- 
house people,  who  sheltered  them  until  the 
brand-new  English  house  was  ready,  which 
was  not  for  a  year.  The  packing,  sending, 
and  storing  of  all  this  furniture  was  under 
one  hundred  pounds,  which,  with  my  Eng- 
lish experience,  I  knew  would  have  bought 
nothing.  I  did  question  the  wisdom  of 
bringing  carpets,  and  I  do  not  think  it  pays 
unless  they  are  very  good  and  large  —  the 
remaking  and  cleaning  cost  too  much  to 
waste  on  anything  not  very  good.  Having 
my  furniture  safely  landed,  the  next  step 
was  to  get  a  house. 

One  finds  that  the  moderate  rents  asked 
for  English  houses  is  misleading,  for  in  ad- 
dition the  tenant  is  expected  to  pay  the  rates 
and  taxes,  which  add  to  the  original  rent 
one-third  more,  only  somehow  this  fact  is 
ignored.  Get  a  house  for  one  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds,  and  you  can  add  fifty  pounds 
to  that  by  way  of  rates  and  taxes.  Nor  does 
46 


American    Wives 


that  enable  you  to  get  anything  very  gor- 
geous in  the  shape  of  a  house,  but  one  ob- 
tainable for  about  the  same  price  in  New 
York  or  Boston,  minus  those  comforts 
which  Americans  have  come  to  consider  as 
a  matter  of  course,  until  they  learn  better 
in  England.  Only  in  flats  are  the  rates 
and  taxes  included  in  the  rent,  and  when 
flats  are  desirable  they  are  expensive. 

Now,  living  in  flats  is  undoubtedly  the 
result  of  worrying  servants,  and  it  is  ob- 
taining here  as  rapidly  as  the  English  ever 
accept  a  new  idea  —  but  being  impelled  by 
despair  they  are  becoming  popular.  Small 
flats  for  "bachelor-maids"  and  childless 
couples  are  abundant  and  well  enough,  but 
for  families  who  decline  to  be  trodden  on 
by  their  nearest  and  dearest  these  are  nearly 
impossible,  and  when  possible  very  dear. 

The  "flat"  contrived  for  the  "upper 
middle  classes"  is  a  terror,  and  is  devoid 
of  the  comforts  invented  by  American  inge- 
nuity and  skill,  and  the  good  taste  which 
makes  American  domestic  architecture  and 
decoration  so  infinitely  superior  to  all.  I 
do  not  wish  to  be  misunderstood  —  if 
money  is  no  object  one   can  be   as  com- 

47 


The   Champagne  Standard 

fortable  in  London  as  in  New  York,  but  I 
am  only  addressing  the  "comfortably  off." 

In  New  York  I  was  taken  to  see  a 
very  inexpensive  flat,  which  proved  to  me 
that  the  average  man  can  make  himself 
thoroughly  comfortable  there.  It  was  in 
an  "apartment  house"  near  Central  Park. 
The  street  was  broad  and  airy.  To  be 
sure  the  flat  was  up  three  flights,  and  there 
was  no  lift  —  but  that  is  nothing.  It  con- 
sisted of  four  rooms,  besides  a  kitchen  and 
bathroom,  and  a  servant's  room.  It  was 
entirely  finished  in  oak,  and  the  plumbing 
was  all  nickel-plated  and  open,  and  it  was 
furnished  with  speaking  tubes.  In  the 
nice  kitchen  was  an  ice-box,  and  the  kitchen 
range  was  of  the  best.  This  model  flat 
cost  six  pounds  a  month,  including  heating, 
and  could  be  given  up  at  a  month's  notice. 

No  model  flat  turning  up  here,  we  were 
reduced  to  take  a  house,  for  which  we  were 
wiUing  to  give  from  one  hundred  and  fifty 
to  two  hundred  pounds.  The  agony  of 
that  search,  and  the  horror  of  the  various 
mansions  offered!  For  the  first  time  I  rec- 
ognised the  wisdom  of  putting  no  clothes- 
closets  in  London  houses,  when  I  think  of 
48 


American   Wives 


the  repositories  of  dirt  they  would  inevitably 
become. 

At  that  time  I  was  not  on  such  inti- 
mate terms  with  the  climate  as  I  have  since 
become,  and  did  not  understand  that  it 
is  humanly  impossible  to  rise  triumphant 
over  fogs,  smuts,  and  beetles.  For  my 
benefit,  grim  and  dingy  caretakers  rose 
out  of  the  bowels  of  the  earth  as  out  of  a 
temporary  tomb  (always  in  bonnets),  and 
showed  us  over  awful  houses  in  which 
every  blessed  thing  had  been  carried  away, 
even  to  the  door  knobs  and  the  key-holes  — 
that  is  of  course  the  metal  around  the  holes. 

Awful,  closetless  houses,  guiltless  of 
comfort,  with  dreary  grates  promising  a 
six  months'  shiver,  and  great  gaunt  win- 
dows rattling  forebodingly.  As  for  the 
plumbing  —  but  it  is  well  to  drop  a  curtain 
over  the  indescribable.  One  does  protest, 
however,  against  the  people  who  live  in 
these  houses  —  houses  whose  discomfort 
an  American  artisan  would  not  tolerate  — 
looking  with  ineffable  self-complacency  on 
their  methods,  and  sniffing  at  our  Ameri- 
can ingenuity  and  our  determination  to 
make  life  comfortable. 

49 


The   Champagne   Standard 

Of  course  we  got  a  house,  thanks  to  no 
estate  agent,  but  as  we  could  not  rent  it 
we  had  to  buy  it  —  or  rather  the  thirty- 
eight  years'  remnant  of  a  lease — a  myste- 
rious arrangement  to  an  American.  It  was 
rather  hard  to  feel  that  the  house  and 
all  our  little  improvements  would,  after 
thirty-eight  years,  revert  to  the  Bishop  of 
London,  to  whom  the  estate  belongs,  but 
we  thought  that  after  thirty-eight  years  we 
might  not  be  so  very  keen  about  it.  So 
we  disturbed  an  aged  woman  in  a  dusty 
crape  bonnet,  and  some  friendly  beetles, 
and  they  left  the  premises  simultaneously. 

We  took  an  architect  on  faith,  who  was 
to  be  our  shield  and  protector  against  the 
contractor ;  then  we  folded  our  hands,  as 
it  were,  and  retired  to  an  hotel  and  pro- 
ceeded to  recover  from  the  horrors  of 
house-hunting.  This  interval  was  taken  by 
the  tradesmen  of  our  new  neighbourhood 
to  recommend  themselves  to  me,  whose 
address  they  discovered  by  some  miracle. 
They  grovelled  before  me,  they  haunted  me 
with  samples  —  eggs,  cream,  butter,  bread, 
followed  me  to  the  ends  of  England,  and 
I  finally  succumbed  to  the  most  energetic. 

50 


American    Wives 


Gradually,  one  gets  accustomed  to 
''patronage"  and  ''patron,"  rare  words  in 
America,  where  the  "I  am  as  good  as 
you"  feeling  still  obtains.  I  am  becoming 
used  to  them  as  well  as  "tradesmen"  and 
"class."  I  acquiesce  in  a  distinct  serving 
class,  conscious  that  not  to  be  aware  of 
the  dividing  gulf  would  mean  the  profound 
scorn  of  those  we  have  agreed  to  call  our 
inferiors. 

To  return  to  the  house.  The  architect 
and  I  looked  it  over  —  everything  was 
wanting.  The  plumbing  was  new,  but 
clumsy  and  inadequate.  In  an  American 
house  much  less  costly,  there  would  be  a 
hanging  cubpoard  in  each  room,  thus  dis- 
pensing with  the  clumsy  and  expensive 
wardrobes.  The  plumbing  would  be  pretty 
and  nickel-plated,  resisting  the  action  of 
the  air,  and  easily  kept  clean.  Here  it  is 
always  brass  or  copper,  clumsy  and  easily 
tarnished. 

The  architect  suggested  only  the  obvious, 
and  with  unwarranted  faith  I  hardly  ven- 
tured to  suggest  anything;  but  when  the 
summer  brought  an  American  friend,  who 
looked   over  the   house,  then   approaching 

51 


The   Champagne   Standard 

completion,  she  sat  on  the  sohtary  chair 
and  shook  her  head. 

"He  hasn't  thought  of  a  single  thing," 
she  cried.  ** Think  of  not  having  a  dumb- 
waiter (English:  dinner-lift)  in  this  un- 
heated  house.  Stone  walls  and  cold  blasts 
—  don't  invite  me  to  your  lukewarm  re- 
pasts! Besides  you  must  have  a  hardwood 
floor"  (parquet  floor)  '*in  your  drawing- 
room"  (being  an  American  she  really  said 
parlor).  "Think  of  all  the  dirty  carpets  it 
will  save,"  she  urged.  "My  dear,  you  don't 
mean  to  say  that  you  will  live  in  this  Bunker 
Hill  Monument  of  a  house"  —  she  comes 
from  Boston) — without  speaking  tubes?" 
She  was  aghast. 

"What  an  architect!  Supposing  you  want 
to  speak  to  the  cook,  why  you'd  have  to 
run  down  four  flights  for  a  tete-a-tete;  then 
supposing  you  want  coals  up  four  flights  — 
must  the  maid  climb  up  four  flights  to  find 
out  what  you  want  before  doing  it .?  My 
dear,  even  an  English  servant  has  human 
legs,  and  she  can't  stand  it." 

I  was  convinced.  I  spoke  to  the  archi- 
tect, and  he  was  politely  acquiescent,  and 
as  all  these  very  necessary  suggestions  came 

52 


American    JF ive s 


late  they  were  doubly  expensive,  and  now  I 
have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  domestic 
architecture  is  the  proper  field  for  a  woman 
with  ideas  —  a  mere  man-architect  does 
not  know  the  meaning  of  comfort,  ingenuity, 
resource,  and  economy. 

As  the  house  declined  to  get  done,  I 
braved  the  architect,  the  contractor,  and 
the  workmen,  and  arrived  one  day  in  com- 
pany with  a  bed,  a  table,  and  a  chair  (also 
a  husband),  and  took  possession. 

I  did  have  one  treasure  at  the  time  —  a 
caretaker.  She  saved  my  life,  and  she  pro- 
tected my  innocent  self  from  the  British 
tradesman,  whilst  she  gently  taught  me 
what  the  British  servant  will  and  will  not 
do.  She  informed  me  when  I  was  paying 
twice  as  much  as  right  to  the  obsequious 
tradesman,  and  she  regulated  the  (to  me) 
perplexing  fee.  She  was  very  religious,  and 
I  think  she  looked  upon  me  as  her  mission 
and  that  she  was  to  rescue  me  —  which 
she  did.  Her  wages  were  one  pound  a 
week  including  her  food,  and  to  be  just  I 
could  not  have  got  such  a  treasure  in 
America  at  the  price. 

The  most  obvious  defect  we  discovered 

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The   Champagne   Standard 

in  our  house  was  that  it  was  very  cold  — 
a  universal  English  drawback  —  and  the 
inadequate  open  fires  seem  to  accentuate 
the  chill. 

Would  that  my  feeble  voice  could  do 
justice  to  the  much-calumniated  American 
methods  of  heating!  It  does  pay  to  be  less 
prejudiced  and  more  comfortable!  Possibly 
the  furnace  and  steam  heat  may  be  a  Httle 
overdone,  but  not  with  moderate  care.  No 
one  can  make  me  believe  that  it  is  healthy 
to  sit  shivering  all  over,  or  roasting  on  one 
side  and  freezing  on  the  other.  Neither 
do  I  consider  a  red  nose  and  chilblains 
very  ornamental.  I  admit  that  furnaces 
are  not  a  crying  need  in  England  all 
through  the  winter,  but  from  December  to 
March  it  is  a  pretence  to  say  you  are  com- 
fortable, for  you  are  not.  There  is  no  doubt 
but  New  England  has  bad  throat  and  lung 
troubles,  yet  so  has  Old  England  and  the 
hardening  process  does  not  save,  if  statistics 
are  right.  If  I  must  take  cold  and  die,  at 
least  I  prefer  to  do  so  comfortably. 

If  there  were  a  furnace  I  should  not  need 
gas-stoves    (which    are    certainly   no    more 
poetic  than  a  register  or  a  radiator,  besides 
54 


American    Wives 


being  distinctly  sham),  nor  would  there  be  a 
perpetual  procession  of  coal-scuttles  going 
upstairs,  unless  an  open  fire  is  desired 
for   additional  warmth  and  cheerfulness. 

This  brings  one  to  the  relative  costs  of 
coal,  water,  and  gas.  London  coal  is  greasy, 
soft,  and  dear.  Where  the  hard  coal  is 
burned  in  the  States,  it  leaves  white  cinders 
and  ashes.  It  burns  slowly  and  is  therefore 
very  profitable,  and  the  price  averages  about 
twenty-four  shillings  a  ton.  Must  the  cheek 
of  English  beauty  always  be  adorned  with 
"blacks"? 

The  water-rates  here  are  just  double  those 
of  Boston,  where,  O  rapture!  we  had  two 
bathrooms,  and  where  the  "sidewalk'* 
(American  for  pavement)  was  thoroughly 
washed  every  morning.  In  Boston  gas 
was  charged  for  at  the  rate  of  four  shillings 
for  one  thousand  cubic  feet;  here  we  pay 
three  shillings  for  the  same,  and  yet  for 
infinitely  less  gas  used  our  bills  here  are 
mysteriously  larger.  Our  London  elec- 
tricity is  both  expensive  and  poor;  con- 
sumers are  at  the  mercy  of  the  companies, 
and  a  little  wholesome  competition  is  very 
imperative. 

55 


The   Champagne   Standard 

The  English  arc  reckoned  a  nation  of 
grumblers,  but  one  finds  that  the  grumbler 
ends  in  grumbling,  though  in  moments  of 
supreme  anguish  he  writes  to  The  Timesy 
which  permits,  with  the  impartiality  of 
Divine  Providence,  both  the  just  and  the 
unjust  to  disport  in  its  columns. 

Considering  the  papering  and  painting 
of  the  house  done  —  the  painting  done  very 
roughly  from  our  point  of  view.  Then  the 
kitchen  needed  a  new  range  and  so  we  got 
the  most  expensive  of  its  kind  —  expensive 
for  America  even  —  but  the  acknowledged 
soHdity  of  English  workmanship  (which 
sometimes  becomes  clumsiness)  is  well  in 
place  here.  The  dinner-lift  had  been  con- 
structed for  one  flight,  and  was  surprisingly 
dear,  while  the  parquet  floor  in  the  drawing- 
room  cost  twenty-seven  pounds  where  it 
would  have  cost  fifteen  pounds  in  America. 

This  brings  me  to  a  point  on  which  I 
wish  to  lay  great  stress:  the  remarkable 
progress  in  America  in  all  the  applied  and 
domestic  arts  within  the  last  ten  years, 
which  leaves  England  far  behind.  Our 
English  house  was  just  old  enough  to  be 
surprisingly  ugly  —  it  belongs  to  the  early 

56 


American    Wives 


Victorian  period.  Without  wishing  to  spend 
too  much  money  in  its  decoration,  we  did 
feel  that  we  ought  to  put  away  the  funereal 
mantel-pieces  and  set  up  something  more 
aesthetic. 

Our  architect — always  obliging  and  never 
suggestive — took  us  to  see  wooden  mantel- 
pieces, and  we  found  them  expensive  and 
clumsy.  In  this  strait  my  Englishman  had 
an  inspiration.  "Buy  them  in  New  York" 
— we  were  just  going  over  —  "and  you 
will  find  them  prettier,  better,  and  cheaper 
even  if  the  freightage  has  to  be  added  to 
the  price." 

I  would  not  believe  him  because  I  also 
was  still  labouring  under  the  delusion  that 
England  was  cheap  and  America  dear. 
However,  we  went  to  New  York  and  there 
we  bought  three  wooden  mantels — six  feet 
high  and  six  feet  wide  —  of  the  best  quar- 
tered oak,  of  so  simple  and  graceful  a  design 
that  they  are  always  noticed  and  admired. 
These  three  were  packed,  sent,  and  landed 
at  our  front  door  in  London,  and  the  price, 
all  included,  was  not  much  more  than  we 
should  have  paid  for  the  only  one  in  Lon- 
don  of  which    I    approved.     I    feel    con- 

57 


The   Champagne   Standard 

vinced  that  there  is  a  great  market  here 
for  American  wood-work  as  well  as  leather, 
iron,  and  glass,  for  with  English  excellence 
of  workmanship  they  combine  a  taste  which 
adapts  the  best  to  its  own  uses.  It  would 
revolutionise  the  decoration  of  English 
houses. 

The  American  has  the  advantage  that 
he  is  not  conservative  where  that  stands 
between  him  and  progress.  That  some- 
thing was  good  enough  for  his  ancestors 
is  no  reason  why  it  should  satisfy  him. 
Because  they  chose  to  freeze  is  no  reason 
why  he  should.  Somehow,  one  always 
comes  back  to  the  inadequate  heating, 
for  as  I  write,  my  face  is  flaming  while 
a  lively  icicle  penetrates  my  spine. 

The  carpets  being  now  down,  I  sent  to 
the  warehouse  for  the  eighty  cases,  and 
after  a  year  again  looked  at  my  house- 
hold gods.  They  were  very  skilfully  un- 
packed, but  (here  is  the  difference  between 
the  English  and  the  American  workman) 
each  one  of  the  men  expected  a  fee  every 
time  he  moved  a  box  for  me.  Every  time 
I  went  to  the  warehouse  to  open  a  trunk 
one  or  two  men  had  to  be  fee'd,  and  at 

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American    Wives 


the  end  it  came  to  quite  a  little  sum. 
In  America,  this  would  not  have  been 
expected,  even  for  harder  work  done,  and 
quite  rightly,  for  the  men  were  receiving 
proper  wages,  and  I  was  paying  the  Stor- 
age Company  liberally. 

Our  American  furniture  being  cosmopol- 
itan it  was  speedily  at  home  in  our  Eng- 
lish rooms;  only  these  high  studded  rooms 
have  such  a  way  of  devouring  furniture!  I 
thought  piteously  of  that  which  I  had  rashly 
flung  into  the  Boston  auction-room,  and 
when  it  came  to  replacing  it,  what  did  I 
find  ?  That  American  furniture  is  much 
better  and  much  cheaper.  My  soul  yearned 
even  for  the  big  black  chest  of  drawers 
which  I  had  left  behind,  and  it  loathed 
the  brand-new  "art  furniture,"  sticky  with 
paste  and  varnish. 

I  demanded  Chippendale  and  such  — 
but,  alas!  their  day  is  over,  except  for  mil- 
lionaires! Praed  Street,  Brompton  Road, 
Great  Portland  Street,  and  Wardour  Street 
should  blush  for  the  faked-up  antiquities 
that  ogle  the  passerby.  I  have  no  preju- 
dice against  modern  furniture  if  it  is  good; 
nor  do  I  love  old  furniture  simply  because 

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it  is  old,  but  undoubtedly  the  old  taste 
was  artistic  and  simple,  and  workmen  had 
plenty  of  leisure  and  used  their  hands. 
But  when  it  comes  to  American  or  Eng- 
lish machine-made  furniture  I  prefer  the 
American  because,  it  is  in  better  taste,  is 
made  of  better  wood,  and  is  cheaper. 

I  paid  twenty-four  shillings  apiece  for 
painted  pine  chests  of  drawers  for  the  ser- 
vants. In  New  York  I  saw  a  pretty  one, 
all  of  oak  with  brass  handles,  for  thirteen 
shillings.  That  is  only  a  sample.  Per- 
haps it  is  ungenerous  urging  the  impor- 
tation of  American  wares  that  can,  because 
of  English  free  trade,  undersell  the  English 
manufacturer,  but  it  remains  true  that  it 
can  be  done,  and  ought  to  be  done,  and  com- 
petition will  improve  the  home  produce, 
and  there  is  room  for  improvement. 

Well,  having  finally  got  my  dwelling  into 
some  kind  of  order,  I  and  my  new  British 
and  old  American  household  gods  pro- 
ceeded to  keep  house  together. 

This  brings  me  to  the  question  of  Eng- 
lish and  American  domestic  service.  It  is 
an  article  of  faith  that  America  being  the 
home  of  the  free  (and  independent)  will 
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American   Wives 


before  long  have  no  servants,  but  only 
"mississes."  It  is  not  quite  so  bad,  by 
any  means.  To  be  sure  wages  are  much 
higher,  but  the  American  servant  does 
twice  the  work  of  an  English  servant. 

The  average  American  family  keeps  two 
servants  and  a  man  who  comes  in  twice  a 
day  to  "tend"  the  furnace  —  the  central 
stove  which  heats  the  entire  house.  The 
cook  gets  fifty  pounds  a  year,  the  house- 
maid forty  pounds,  and  the  man,  who  gets 
neither  food  nor  lodging,  eighteen  pounds. 
The  total  is  one  hundred  and  eight  pounds, 
which  includes  the  baking  of  all  the  bread 
and  the  doing  of  the  weekly  laundry  for  the 
entire  house;  the  only  additional  expenses 
being  for  coal  and  soap. 

Now  for  the  wages  in  an  English  family 
of  the  same  standing:  —  Cook  thirty-five 
pounds,  parlour-maid  twenty-six  pounds, 
housemaid  twenty  pounds,  char-boy  eight 
pounds,  and  fifty  pounds  to  the  laundry 
for  v/ork  which  is  quite  disgraceful.  The 
sum  total  is  one  hundred  and  thirty-nine 
pounds,  which  does  not  include  the  feeding 
of  an  additional  person,  and  a  servant's 
board  is  a  greater  expense  than  her  wages. 

6i 


The  Champagne  Standard 


Distinctly  the  economy  is  on  the  American 
side. 

That  the  servant  business  is  a  trade  was 
a  fact  impressed  on  me  for  the  first  time 
by  my  very  intelligent  English  cook.  Each 
Enghsh  servant  has  her  trade  which  she 
knows  and  she  declines  to  meddle  with  what 
she  does  not  know,  for  which  reason  the 
dividing  lines  are  rather  strictly  laid  down. 
It  was  something  I  had  to  learn  so  as  not 
to  call  on  one  servant  to  do  the  duties  of 
another.  Our  American  servants  are  more 
liberal,  but  now  I  realise  that  a  good  Eng- 
lish servant  is  not  so  much  an  amateur  as 
an  American;  but  unless  you  wish  to  be 
unpleasantly  enlightened  as  mistress,  you 
must  learn  her  line  of  duty  well. 

To  keep  house  one  must  have  servants, 
and  in  a  strange  place  the  first  problem  is 
how  to  get  them.  Supposing  no  friend  can 
recommend  you  one,  you  are  reduced  either 
to  advertising  or  the  registry  office.  Regis- 
try offices,  through  which  the  majority  of 
sufferers  get  their  *'help,"  riot  in  ungodly 
prosperity.  They  have  managers  and  clerks, 
like  a  bank  and,  like  other  corporations, 
they  have  no  souls.  If  you  are  a  meek 
62 


merican    rV  i  ve  s 


w, 


lady  they  snub  you,  and  if  you  are  unde- 
cided they  give  you  bad  advice.  At  any  rate 
the  unscrupulous  ones,  and  there  are  plenty 
of  these,  take  your  fee  whether  you  get  a 
servant  or  not. 

It  seems  as  if  a  certain  amount  of  honesty 
should  obtain  even  in  this  business,  and  I 
protest  against  paying  five  shillings  for  the 
mere  joy  of  talking  to  a  stately  female,  the 
presiding  goddess  in  the  generally  ill-venti- 
lated temple,  who  pockets  my  money  and, 
as  soon  as  my  fee  is  safe,  takes  no  further 
earthly  interest  in  me.  The  methods  of  Eng- 
lish registry  offices  seem  to  me  the  brazenest 
kind  of  piracy.  Why  don't  English  women 
rebel  ?  Are  they  not  the  daughters  and 
wives  of  grumblers,  and  probably  the 
mothers  also  ?  However,  fate  was  kind 
to  me,  and  I  got  three  servants,  two  of 
good  village  families,  while  the  superior 
cook  was  the  legacy  of  a  brilliant  woman, 
a  good  deal  of  whose  wisdom  I  have  since 
had  at  second-hand. 

In  the  economy  of  the  universe  I  know 
that  there  is  a  serving  class,  but  we  people 
of  New  England  are  not  glib  in  the  use  of 
the  word  ''servant."     Do  we  not  (in   the 

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The   Champagne  Standard 

country)  call  them  "helps"  when  the  ex- 
pression is  base  flattery  ?  Here,  class  dis- 
tinctions have  put  the  matter  on  a  practical 
footing  —  servants  are  servants  and  recog- 
nise themselves  as  such,  and  have  that 
outward  and  visible  sign  of  well-trained 
domestics  which  the  Irish  girl,  direct  from 
her  paternal  pig-sty,  scorns  in  New  York. 

"You  must  not  think,"  said  my  intelligent 
cook,  "that  we  don't  have  our  feelings  as 
much  as  you."  There  it  was,  and  she  put 
herself  as  a  matter  of  course  on  quite  a 
different  plane  of  human  beings;  the  Ameri- 
can servant,  on  the  other  hand,  would  con- 
sider herself  of  the  same  class,  but  ill-used 
by  circumstances.  A  clever  woman  once 
said  to  me,  "You  can't  expect  all  the 
Christian  virtues  in  the  kitchen  for  five 
dollars  a  week!"  But  we  do!  Perhaps 
the  most  precious  gift  I  received  when  I 
left  Boston  was  this  advice:  "Don't  see 
too  much." 

Servants  are  hke  children;  to  keep  them 
under  control  you  must  impress  them.  They 
object  to  a  mistress  who  is  too  clever  with 
her  hands,  but  they  like  her  praise.  An 
American  servant  does  not  lose  respect  for 
64 


men  can   fr  t  ve s 


w 


a  mistress  who,  if  necessary,  can  "lend  a 
hand,"  but  the  EngHsh  servant  sees  in  such 
readiness  a  distinct  loss  of  dignity.  Many 
a  time  have  my  American  servants  seen  me 
on  the  top  of  a  step-ladder  doing  some- 
thing that  required  more  intelligence  than 
strength,  and  they  have  respected  my  power 
to  '*  do."  Here  something  keeps  me  from  the 
top  of  the  step-ladder — instinct  probably. 

An  American  treats  her  servants  more 
considerately  than  an  Englishwoman.  I 
am  conscious  of  saving  my  servants  too 
much;  often  (I  confess  it  with  shame)  I 
run  down  a  flight  or  two  to  meet  them, 
and  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  more  I  do 
the  more  unwilling  and  ungrateful  they 
become. 

With  three  English  servants,  besides  a 
boy  (not  to  speak  of  the  laundry),  now 
doing  the  work  of  two  American  servants, 
I  proceed.  I  have  mentioned  a  vital  and 
nearly  fatal  subject — the  laundry.  In  Lon- 
don it  is  awful  but  inevitable,  and  one 
cannot  wonder  any  more  at  the  stupendous 
dirt  of  the  lower  classes.  Are  their  things 
ever  washed,  and  if  so  who  pays  ?  After 
much  observation  I  have  decided  that  they 

65 


The   Champagne  Standard 

make  up  by  a  liberal  use  of  starch  what 
they  lack  in  soap  and  water  and  "elbow- 
grease." 

Language  fails  an  American  direct  from 
the  land  of  clear  skies,  sunshine  and  soap 
and  water,  when  she  contemplates  the  har- 
rowing results  of  steam  laundries.  Really 
the  most  expensive  of  luxuries  in  London 
is  to  keep  clean!  When  on  Sunday  after- 
noons one  sees  in  Kensington  Gardens  a 
poor  infant  with  a  terribly  starched  and 
dirty  cap  on  its  head  (in  the  form  of  a 
muffin),  enveloped  in  an  equally  dirty  and 
starched  cape,  and  carried  by  a  small 
girl  in  fearfully  starched  and  dingy  petti- 
coats, one  recognises  maternal  pride  which 
rises  superior  to  London  dirt. 

I  am  the  client  of  a  "model"  laundry 
which  sends  our  linen  back  a  deUcate  pearl- 
grey.  We  call  it  affectionately  the  "mud- 
dle" laundry,  and  it  costs  us  one  pound  a 
week  to  keep  up  to  the  pearl-grey  standard. 
I  wish  we  could  go  back  to  the  days  of 
chain-armour!  What  remedy?  There  is 
none,  except  country  laundries  for  the  rich 
and  great,  and  starch  for  the  poor!  The 
only  result  of  soft  coal  and  dire  necessity 
66 


mer  I  c  an    fr  ives 


W 


is  the  excellence  and  cheapness  of  the 
cleansing  establishments,  without  which 
the  long-suffering  householder  would  in- 
deed sit  in  sack-cloth  and  ashes! 

The  one  aim  in  furnishing  our  little  house 
has  been  to  keep  the  rooms  free  from  all 
unnecessary  draperies,  which  are  merely 
traps  for  dust.  It  is  hard  for  me  to  curb 
my  feminine  taste,  which  runs  to  sofa 
cushions  and  Oriental  nooks  lighted  by 
Venetian  lamps,  but  the  exigencies  of  the 
London  climate  make  me  strictly  Colonial 
(New  England  Colonial),  and  I  can  look 
into  every  corner  —  blessed  privilege.  The 
laundry  being  an  accepted  evil,  one  insti- 
tution I  willingly  proclaim  cheap  —  the 
scrub-woman  who  gets  half  a  crown  a  day. 
Why  don't  all  English  scrub-women  emi- 
grate to  the  States  in  a  body  ?  They 
would  get  from  six  to  eight  shillings  a 
day,  overtime  overpay. 

Coming  to  the  details  of  housekeeping. 
The  custom  here  is  that  tradesmen  call  for 
orders.  That  also  obtains  in  America, 
but  many  ladies  there  go  to  the  markets 
and  select  and  order  for  themselves,  which 
is   distinctly   more    economical.     Here,  as 

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The   Champagne  Standard 


the  result  of  inadequate  storage  room,  the 
expense    of    ice,   and    the    by    no    means 
common  use  of  the   ice-box,  there  is  not 
much  food  kept  in  the  house.     Now  the 
laying-in  of  a  good  supply  once  or  twice  a 
week,  if  the  mistress  understands  ordering 
and  goes  where  she  pleases,  is  undoubtedly 
cheaper  than  a  daily  ordering  of  driblets. 
It  is  the  same  with  groceries,  and  these 
should  be  kept  under  lock  and  key!     To 
the  American  that  is  not  only  an  impossi- 
bility, it  is  nearly  an  insult,  and  I  know  of 
not   a   single   American   housekeeper   who 
weighs  out  the  groceries  and  other  articles 
to  be  used  week  by  week.     It  seems  to 
start  the  mutual   relationship   of  mistress 
and  maid  on  a  basis  of  suspicion. 

A  tabulated  list  of  values  is  useless 
where  prices  fluctuate.  I  simply  compare 
the  differences  as  I  have  found  them  in  my 
own  httle  housekeeping.  Meat,  with  the 
exception  of  fillet  and  sirloin,  is  dearer  here, 
and  so  is  poultry.  Groceries  average  about 
the  same,  but  coffee  and  flour  are  dearer. 
So  are  butter  and  eggs.  Milk  is  the  same, 
but  tea,  dear  to  the  English  heart,  is  so 
cheap  that  one  can  undermine  one's  ner- 
68 


American    Wives 


vous  system  at  a  very  small  expense.  Vege- 
tables are  good  and  cheap,  but  there  is  httle 
variety,  while  fruit  is  dear. 

How  one  does  miss  the  ordinary  cheap, 
good  fruits,  the  California  grapes  and  the 
Concords  with  their  clusters  of  deep  blue 
berries,  a  five-pound  basket  of  which  only 
costs  a  shilling.  These  were  first  grown  in 
the  old  New  England  town  that  Emerson 
made  famous.  As  for  apples,  pears  and 
peaches,  they  are  among  the  cheap  fruits 
over  the  sea,  and  I  maintain  their  superi- 
ority to  their  English  kin. 

What  oranges  equal  the  Floridas  ?  The 
"forbidden-fruit"  and  the  "grape-fruit," 
are  only  just  making  their  conquering  way 
into  the  English  shops.  If,  as  it  is  claimed, 
the  one  is  the  forbidden  fruit  of  the  Gar- 
den of  Eden,  Eve  is  nearly  justified! 

Yes,  there  are  many  good  things  in 
America  and  at  reasonable  prices.  One 
has  only  to  think  of  the  divine  "  sweet  corn  " 
and  "squash"  and  "sweet  potatoes,"  and 
even  the  modest  white  bean  from  which  all 
New  England  makes  its  national  dish  of 
"pork  and  beans." 

Fish  there  is  in  great  variety  in  London, 
69 


The   Champagne  Standard 

but  that  also  I  find  dear.  How  is  it  pos- 
sible for  me  to  live  in  a  land  where  lobsters 
and  oysters  are  a  luxury  and  not  a  necessity  ? 
Only  a  housekeeper  knows  what  a  refuge 
they  are  in  trouble  —  when  an  unexpected 
visitor  turns  up.  Is  not  the  "oyster  stew" 
(a  soup  of  milk  and  oysters)  an  American 
national  dish  ?  But  it  could  only  reach 
perfection  in  that  blessed  land  where  to  eat 
oysters  is  not  to  suck  a  copper  key,  and 
where  they  exist  in  regal  profusion.  I  look 
with  scorn  at  the  measly,  little  lobsters  for 
each  of  which  the  fishmonger  demands 
three  ridiculous  shillings  instead  of  one 
shilling  and  three  pence.  My  heart  longs 
for  lobster  a  la  Newhurg  till  I  remember 
that  it  takes  three  of  these  poor  creatures 
to  make  the  dish  —  nine  shillings!  So  I 
continue  to  yearn  and  keep  my  nine  shillings. 
I  cannot,  however,  leave  the  subject  with- 
out expressing  my  admiration  for  the  beauty 
of  the  English  fish  shops  and  butcher  shops. 
To  see  a  fish  shop  in  London  is  to  see  a  trade 
haloed  with  poetry.  If  I  were  a  fishmonger 
I  would  sit  among  my  stock-in-trade  and 
be  inspired.  The  fishmonger  is  an  artist,  he 
constructs  pictures  of  still-life  which  would 
70 


American    Wives 


have  been  revelations  to  the  greatest  of 
Dutch  masters.  In  America  our  fish  shops 
are  devoid  of  poetry  —  the  only  compensa- 
tion being  to  see  the  mountainous  piles  of 
oysters,  ready  to  be  opened,  and  innumer- 
able great  red  lobsters. 

To  one  item  of  American  economy  I 
wish  to  return  with  added  stress;  that  is, 
the  baking  of  bread  in  each  house.  This 
household-bread,  if  well  made,  is  deUcious, 
substantial,  and  economical.  Usually  the 
cook  bakes  twice  a  week,  and  besides  that 
she  is  expected  to  have  ready  for  break- 
fast either  fresh  baked  "biscuits"  (scones), 
''muffins,"  or  '* pop-overs."  The  yearly 
allowance  of  flour  for  each  person  is  one 
barrel,  and  one  reckons  the  expense  to  be 
about  half  what  bread  costs  here.  The 
English  "double-decker"  is  a  fearful  and 
wonderful  production  that  errs  on  the  side 
of  heaviness,  just  as  the  American  baker's 
bread  errs  on  the  side  of  frivolous  lightness, 
and  nourishes  like  froth. 

Whenever  Americans  proclaim  the  cheap- 
ness of  a  visit  to  London  one  finds  without 
exception  that  they  live  here  as  they  would 
not  dream  of  living  at  home.    Were  they  to 

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The   Champagne  Standard 


take  lodgings  there  in  the  same  economic 
manner,  they  could  live  quite  as  cheaply. 

Another  inexpensive  commodity  —  which 
becomes  very  expensive  in  the  end — is  cabs. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  they  are  cheap,  and 
the  fatal  result  is  that  they  are  used  to  an 
extent  which  makes  them  a  serious  item  of 
expense  to  a  family  of  moderate  means.  In 
America  we  pay  two  shillings  each  for  a 
short  drive  in  that  stately  vehicle  called  a 
"hack,"  and  the  price  is  prohibitive  for  an 
average  family  except  on  "occasions."  So 
cab  fares  are  not  a  serious  item  in  domestic 
expenses. 

From  experience,  I  beheve  that  America 
has  a  very  unmerited  reputation  for  ex- 
pense. Live  well,  even  if  not  ostenta- 
tiously, in  London,  and  it  costs  fully  as 
much  as  in  New  York  or  Boston.  One 
does  not  judge  by  millionaires  or  beggars, 
for  both  are  independent  of  statistics,  but 
by  the  middle  classes.  Houses  are  here 
singularly  devoid  of  comforts,  and,  taking 
the  same  income,  I  should  say  a  middle- 
class  American  family  could  live  there  as 
cheaply  as  here,  but  with  more  comfort; 
and  when  it  comes  to  schooling  for  chil- 

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American   JV ives 


dren,  an  item  to  which  I  have  not  alluded, 
with  infinitely  greater  advantages. 

In  writing  down  these  desultory  reflec- 
tions, I  have  been  actuated  by  the  thought 
that  what  I  have  learned  may  be  of  use  to 
some  puzzled  American  creature,  who, 
having  married  an  Englishman,  proposes 
to  live  in  England  with  only  American 
standards  to  guide  her.  She  must  not 
believe,  as  I  was  told,  that  an  American 
income  will  go  one-third  farther  here.  It 
does  not.  She  must  be  prepared  to  accept 
other  methods,  even  if,  secretly,  she  modi- 
fies them  a  little  to  suit  her  American  notions; 
but  she  must  not  boast,  for  her  well-meaning 
efforts  will,  at  best,  be  regarded  with  good- 
natured  tolerance. 

How  I  wish  I  could  clap  a  big,  stolid, 
conservative,  frost-bitten  English  matron 
into  a  snug  American  house,  with  a  furnace, 
and  heaps  of  closet  (cupboard)  room,  and 
all  sorts  of  bells  and  lifts  and  telephones, 
and  then  force  her  to  tell  me  the  absolute, 
unvarnished  truth!     What  would  she  say? 

In  conclusion,  I  wonder  if  I,  as  an  exiled 
American  sister,  might  make  a  plea  to  my 
American  brethren  ?     It  is  that  when  they 

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The   Champagne   Stand ard 


send  their  wedding  invitations,  as  well  as 
others,  printed  on  their  swellest  "Tiffany" 
paper,  they  will  kindly  put  on  enough  post- 
age. Why  should  one  have  to  pay  five- 
pence  on  each  joyjul  occasion  ?  On  some, 
bristling  with  pasteboard,  I  have  even  had 
to  pay  tenpence,  —  why  add  this  pang  to 
exile  ? 


74 


Kitchen  Comedies 


MY  superior  cook  had  just  given 
me  notice,  and   I  felt  that  the 
bottom  had  dropped  out  of  the 
universe.    She  was   an  ancient 
retainer,    according     to    twentieth-century 
standard,     for     she     had    been    with    me 
three   months. 

Her  claim  to  fame  rested  on  her  once 
having  cooked  for  Lord  Kitchener.  When- 
ever we  had  a  trifling  difference  of  opinion, 
which  was  seldom,  because  I  didn't  dare,  she 
always  retorted  that  she  had  cooked  for 
Lord  Kitchener,  and,  of  course,  I  reahsed 
that  I  was  but  an  unworthy  successor  to  that 
great  man.  I  suffered  a  good  deal  from  his 
lordship  in  those  days,  and  fervently  pray 
that  Fate  will  not  throw  in  my  blameless 
path  either  his  parlour-maid  or  his  laun- 
dress. 

I  had  felt  so  safe,  for  cook  lured  me  on 
with  false  hopes:  she  offered  to  make  mar- 
malade, and  she  demanded  a  cat.  This 
was  tantamount  to  staying  for  ever.    She 

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The   Champagne   Standard 

made  the  marmalade,  and  we  scoured  the 
neighbourhood  for  a  cat. 

It  may  be  a  digression,  but  I  really  must 
remark  here  on  the  scarcity  of  any  particular 
commodity  of  which  one  happens  to  stand 
in  need.  If  the  world  can  be  said  to  be 
overstocked  by  any  one  article  it  really  might 
be  said  to  be  cats;  but  had  we  been  in  search 
of  a  Koh-i-noor  it  could  not  have  been 
more  hopeless.  We  waited  three  months 
for  a  cat  to  be  made  to  order,  so  to  speak, 
and  the  very  day  his  godmother  left  —  we 
named  him  in  honour  of  our  departed  cook 
— he  appeared  in  the  person  of  a  long,  lank, 
rattailed,  ignominious  tabby,  on  whom  food 
made  no  earthly  impression.  His  name 
is  Boxer  —  Mister  Boxer. 

There  is  a  great  daily  paper  in  London  in 
whose  columns  the  nobility  and  gentry 
clamour  for  what  the  Americans  delicately 
call  **help."  I  have  myself  pressed  into 
four  alluring  lines  a  statement  of  the  advan- 
tages I  had  to  offer,  and  have  received  no 
reply.  I  have  answered  thirty-five  advertis- 
ing parlour-maids,  enclosing  stamped  enve- 
lopes, and  have  had  no  reply.  My  cook 
having  retired  from  the  scene,  and  there 

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Kitchen    Comedies 


being  nothing  left  to  remind  me  of  her  but 
Mister  Boxer,  I  again  sought  solace  in  those 
delusive  columns. 

'*What  have  I  done,"  I  cried  in  anguish, 
"that  all  cooks  should  avoid  me?" 

Just  then  my  dearest  friend  was  an- 
nounced; at  least,  she  is  as  dear  as  distance 
will  permit  in  London. 

"What's  happened?"  she  asked  at  once. 

I  explained  mournfully  that  cook  had 
gone. 

"Whenever  we  had  company  she  always 
said  it  wasn't  Lord  Kitchener,  though  I 
never  said  it  was." 

"I  wish  to  goodness,"  and  my  friend 
flung  herself  into  the  nearest  chair,  "that  my 
cook  would  go." 

For  a  moment  I  gasped;  it  sounded  so 
audacious. 

"Give  me  a  new  cook  every  week,"  she 
cried,  "but  deliver  me  from  eating  the 
same  cooking  for  twenty-six  years,  as  we 
have  done.  Adolphus  says  he  has  eaten 
four  thousand  French  pancakes  filled  with 
raspberry  jam,  in  that  time,  and  that  he'll  die 
if  he  eats  another  one.  I  don't  blame  him," 
she  added  gloomily,  "but  what  are  we  to 

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The   Champagne   Standard 

do  ?  I've  urged  her  to  better  herself,  but 
she  won't.  She  quarrels  with  every  servant 
who  comes  into  the  house;  she's  as  deaf  as 
a  post,  and  she  cooks  abominably  unless 
we  have  a  dinner-party.  If  we  weren't 
poor  I'd  pension  her  off;  but  we  can't  afford 
it,"  and  she  gave  a  bounce  of  resignation. 
"So  don't  talk  to  me  of  ancient  family 
retainers;  I'm  sick  of  them!" 

"You  don't  know  what  you  are  talking 
about,"  I  said  solemnly.  "Listen  to  me. 
Last  week  I  read  an  advertisement  put  in 
by  a  lady  for  her  cook  who  was  leaving  — 
a  cook  with  all  the  Christian  virtues.  I 
decided  to  answer  it  at  once,  but  then  I 
remembered  the  thirty-five  who  never  replied 
to  my  letters.  Just  then  He  came  down, 
placid  and  smiling  —  you  know  his  way  — 
and  I  explained  to  him  that  an  Honourable 
Mrs.  Smith  was  advertising  for  a  place  for 
her  cook,  in  whom  she  took  a  personal 
interest. 

"'My  dear,'  he  said,  *  don't  write!  Hire 
an  ambulance  and  fetch  her  back,  for  a 
cook  so  recommended  cannot  be  long  for 
this  world.' 

"I  took  his  advice  and  flew  there  in  a 

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Kitchen   Comedies 


hansom,  and  I  was  so  excited  that  I  forgot 
to  watch  the  horse's  ears.  It  was  ten 
o'clock  when  I  reached  the  Honourable 
Mrs.  Smith's,  and  it  was  just  like  a  smart 
*at  home.'  At  first  I  thought  we  had  gone 
to  the  wrong  house.  Five  ladies  were  going 
in,  and  I  passed  six  in  the  hall.  There 
were  several  reception-rooms  and  not  a 
chair  without  a  lady.  A  perplexed,  wil- 
lowy creature  without  a  hat,  who  turned 
out  to  be  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Smith,  led 
me  to  a  seat  under  an  imitation  palm-tree, 
and  said  it  was  dreadful  and  that  she 
would  never  do  it  again.  Her  cook  had 
received  forty-five  letters  and  twenty  wires; 
and  fifteen  messenger-boys  and  thirty-two 
ladies  had  called. 

"There  were  twenty  letters  from  persons 
of  title.  Of  course,  I  thought  of  Lord 
Kitchener,  and  felt  it  useless  to  stay,  but 
as  I  had  come  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Smith 
advised  me  to  wait;  she  was  very  civil. 

*'Now,  you  know  my  three  rules:  I  won't 
have  mixed  religions  in  the  kitchen  because 
of  squabbles;  I  won't  take  a  servant  out  of 
a  'flat';  and  I  don't  want  one  who  wears 
glasses. 

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The   Champagne  Stand ard 

**When  the  paragon  and  I  met  under  the 
imitation  palm,  I  found  she  was  all  I  did 
not  want.  She  questioned  me  severely, 
and  said  that  she  was  a  Roman  Catholic. 
I  felt  that  the  religion  of  a  being  for  whom 
twenty  of  the  nobility  were  clamouring  was 
no  concern  of  mine,  and  I  was  surprised 
when  she  asked  me  to  leave  my  address. 
So  little  did  I  aspire  to  the  paragon  that  I 
did  not  even  ask  if  she  could  cook.  I  passed 
ladies  still  arriving,  and  I  was  so  melancholy 
that  I  went  home  in  a  'bus. 

"The  next  morning  I  had  a  letter,  and 
I  can  truly  say  I  never  was  so  flattered  in  my 
life,  not  even  when  He  asked  me  to  marry 
him,  for  the  paragon  had  chosen  me  out  of 
one  hundred  and  sixty-five  ladies,  exclusive 
of  twenty  of  the  nobility. 

"To  be  sure,  she  went  against  all  my 
principles  and  I  did  not  even  know  if  she 
could  cook;  but  she  had  chosen  me! 

"So  she  arrived  in  company  of  three 
cardboard  bonnet-boxes  and  a  japanned 
tin  trunk. 

"He  suggested  that  we  should  try  her 
on  a  lunch,  and  we  did.  Thank  goodness, 
we  only  had  four  of  his  chums,  or  I  should 
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K  itch  en    Comedies 


have  died  of  mortification.  After  all,  a 
clever  man  is  sometimes  duller  than  the 
dullest  woman. 

*'How  she  cooked!  It  was  appalHng! 
Our  parlour-maid,  who  has  lovely  manners, 
served  a  series  of  horrors  as  if  they  vv^ere  a 
feast  for  the  gods.  After  luncheon  I  found 
cook  had  broken  my  best  cut-glass  salad 
bowl,  and  two  old  Worcester  plates,  and 
then  finished  off^  with  nervous  prostration 
on  the  kitchen  floor.  He  and  I  dined  out 
that  night;  we  had  had  too  much  of  the 
comforts  of  home. 

**The  next  morning  the  housemaid  ap- 
peared with  joy  in  her  usually  blank  eyes, 
and  said  cook  had  gone  and  taken  her  boxes. 
At  first  I  thought  she  had  gone  to  High 
Mass.  But  no,  she  had  really  gone  with 
her  heavy  tin  trunk  and  the  three  band- 
boxes. How  she  got  them  down  at  mid- 
night over  four  creaking  flights  of  stairs 
without  being  heard,  we  shall  never  know, 
but  she  did.  We  found  out  afterwards  that 
the  Honourable  Mrs.  Smith  had  had  this 
paragon  just  one  month,  and  then  she  was 
anxious  to  get  rid  of  her  in  a  hurry;  so 
she  advertised.  It  was  cruel,  wasn't  it  ? 
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The   Champagne  Standard 

Really,  you  know,  it  is  wicked  of  you  to 
complain  when  a  servant  has  been  faithful 
to  you  for  twenty-six  years/* 

My  friend,  who  had  been  made  cynical 
through  suffering,  said  her  cook  wouldn't 
have  been  faithful  if  she  could  have  got  a 
better  place. 

The  servant  problem  is  indeed  a  very  sore 
subject  and  singularly  serious  in  England. 
For  this  there  are  two  reasons:  class  distinc- 
tions, and  also  because  so  many  more  ser- 
vants are  needed  here  to  do  a  given  amount 
of  work  than  anywhere  else.  Of  course,  a 
great  leisured  class  means  also  a  great  serv- 
ing class,  and  this  serving  class  is  useless 
for  others,  because  it  has  been  brought  up 
to  false  standards  of  expenditure  and  to  a 
good  deal  of  idleness.  Take  this  class  out 
of  the  supply,  and  also  the  ever-increasing 
numbers  to  whom  the  smattering  of  Board 
School  education  has  taught  just  enough  to 
make  them  good  for  very  little,  so  that  in 
their  proper  pride  they  prefer  to  pass  the 
weary  years  in  cheap  department  stores  or 
starve  on  factory  wages.  Then  it  is  very 
conceivable  that  the  servant  supply  does  not 
equal  the  demand. 

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Kitchen    Comedies 


The  result  is  that  the  registry  offices  do 
a  thriving  trade  in  sending  out  all  sorts  of 
undesirable  and  ignorant  human  beings  to 
be  thorns  in  the  flesh  of  unsuspecting  house- 
keepers. 

There  is  something  so  pathetically  reck- 
less in  our  everyday  life!  How  little  we 
know  of  the  servants  we  take  into  our  inti- 
mate lives  out  of  this  terrible  London  with 
its  vices  and  crimes,  discovered  and  undis- 
covered. Recommendations  are  simply  the 
blind  leading  the  blind.  The  worst  servant 
I  ever  had  came  with  a  glowing  personal 
character. 

Why  will  not  women  tell  the  truth !  Per- 
haps it  is  characteristic  of  the  weaker  vessel 
to  be  more  tactful,  to  put  it  delicately,  than 
men.  The  lack  of  truth  is  partly  a  desire 
not  to  be  bothered  and  partly  a  rather  spite- 
ful wish  that  the  other  woman  may  find  out 
for  herself,  and  also  a  cowardly  fear  to  do  a 
poor  girl  an  ill  turn.  I  rejoice  to  say  that 
I  found  one  honest  woman  who  prevented 
my  taking  a  burglar's  assistant  to  my  heart. 
But  she  was  more  than  a  woman,  for  she 
was  also  a  physician.  When  a  woman 
takes  to  a  man's  profession  she  at  the  same 

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The   Champagne  Standard 

time   takes  on  something  of  a  man's  vir- 
tues. 

To  this  lady  I  went  for  a  personal  char- 
acter of  an  ideal  housemaid,  who  said  she 
had  left  her  last  place  because  the  lady 
would  not  permit  a  "follower."  Thinking 
I  might  not  be  so  bigoted  in  regard  to  fol- 
lowers, human  nature  being  human  nature, 
I  was  prepared  for  an  area  romance,  but 
not  for  a  shilling  shocker. 

The  ideal,  so  the  lady  told  me  honestly, 
was  beloved  by  a  job  butler  next  door.  She 
had  been  a  nice  country  girl,  but  London 
and  the  job  butler  had  proved  her  destruc- 
tion. Area  railings  and  bolts  were  as  nothing 
to  them.  The  area  bell  was  for  ever  ringing, 
and  when,  by  highest  command,  it  remained 
unanswered,  then  did  the  job  butler  make 
a  constant  practice  of  ringing  the  front-door 
bell  at  unearthly  hours,  until  finally  the 
police  had  to  interfere.  Then,  soured  by  the 
course  of  true  love  running  so  far  from 
smooth,  the  job  butler  broke  in  one  night  and 
took  things.  Whether  the  loving  house-maid 
was  a  party  to  the  burglary  was  not  proved, 
but  she  was  discharged  at  a  moment's  notice, 
and  it  was  then  that  she  applied  to  me. 
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Kitchen   Comedies 


"I  couldn't  let  you  take  her  with  eyes 
closed,"  said  this  true  philanthropist,  and 
so  I  declined  the  young  burglar's  assistant. 

In  another  article  I  have  compared  Eng- 
lish and  American  servants.  Briefly  re- 
peated, the  American  servant  will  do  twice 
the  work  of  an  English  servant,  nor  are 
her  rules  cast-iron.  She  is  open  to  reason, 
accepts  new  methods,  and  is  not  conserva- 
tive. Conservatism,  to  a  certain  point, 
wherever  found,  represents  a  caution  that 
is  wisdom;  but  the  conservatism  of  ser- 
vants rests  on  colossal  ignorance,  the  result 
of  experience  gathered  from  innumerable 
*' ladies,"  many  quite  as  ignorant  as  their 
servants.  In  these  progressive  days  they 
keep  them  too  short  a  time  to  care  to  teach 
them  anything,  and  are  mostly  glad  enough 
to  ** muddle  along"  any  way.  Never  have 
servants  been  treated  so  well  as  now  and 
never  have  they  as  a  rule  been  so  bad. 

The  world,  in  spite  of  its  Rockefellers, 
Carnegies,  and  Rothschilds,  is  made  up  of 
people  with  modest  incomes,  and  it  is  these 
who  suffer  most  keenly  under  the  mistaken 
aspiration  of  the  servant  class.  The  impos- 
sibility   of    getting   servants,  makes    them 

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The   Champagne   Standard 

resigned  to  put  up  with  unbearable  short- 
comings, for  complaints  result  in  immediate 
notice  being  given,  and,  after  all,  a  bad 
servant  is  better  than  no  servant.  So  the 
servant  never  learns,  and  takes  her  faults 
to  the  next  sufferer. 

The  head  of  one  of  the  most  trustworthy 
of  the  London  registry  offices  told  me  that 
the  decadence  of  servants  had  its  rise  during 
the  first  Jubilee  of  Queen  Victoria.  There 
was  such  an  influx  of  strangers  in  London 
that  country  servants  were  imported  at  huge 
wages,  while,  on  the  other  hand,  innumer- 
able London  servants  threw  up  their  situa- 
tions simply  "to  see  the  fun."  Since  then, 
she  affirmed,  they  have  become  a  restless 
lot,  changing  from  one  place  to  the  other 
without  reason,  except  for  the  sake  of  excite- 
ment, and  generally  demanding  big  estab- 
Hshments,  less  work,  and  increasing  wages. 
I  have  heard  more  complaints  of  servants 
in  England  in  a  few  years  than  in  my  whole 
Hfe  in  America. 

The  country  servants'  Mecca  is  London, 

and  no  sooner  have  they  reached  it  than 

they  join  that  restless  procession  with  the 

japanned    tin    trunks.     What   becomes   of 

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Kitchen    Comedies 


them  ?  Where  do  they  finally  go  with  their 
false  standards  and  blank  faces!  Those 
awful  blank  faces,  as  impenetrable  as  that  of 
the  Egyptian  Sphinx. 

Servants  can  be  divided  into  two  classes: 
those  that  aspire  to  serve  the  nobility,  and 
the  others  who  circulate  among  the  middle- 
classes.  The  outward  and  visible  distinc- 
tions of  the  former  are  the  perfection  of 
menial  smartness,  the  women's  starched 
apron-bows  cocked  to  an  impertinent  angle, 
and  their  faces  a  blank.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  middle-class  servant  never  really  suc- 
ceeds to  a  blank  face,  which  is  the  result  of 
years  of  practice,  and  sometimes  she  even 
smiles.  Also  her  apron  is  often  put  on  in 
a  hurry,  and  much  starch  brazens  out  holes; 
besides,  her  face  invites  "smuts." 

Then  there  is  a  kind  of  manservant  who 
revolves  in  boarding-houses  and  among 
certain  kinds  of  distracted  families,  who  is 
too  awful  to  contemplate.  Those  fatal, 
ill-fitting  evening  clothes  that  shine  with  age 
and  grease.  He  mostly  comes  from  foreign 
parts,  and,  instead  of  presenting  to  the 
spectator  a  blank  wall  of  a  face,  he  stares  at 
you   in    agonised    misapprehension.     As    a 

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foreigner,  he  is  naturally  despised  by  his 
British  fellow  servants.  Has  not  the  Eng- 
lishman a  perfectly  natural  conviction  that 
Divine  Providence  is  a  British  institution, 
and  that  the  heavenly  language  is  Eng- 
lish? 

The  rest  of  the  v^orld  (v^ith  the  exception 
in  these  days  of  Americans)  he  labels  as 
foreigners,  and  foreigners  he  either  tolerates, 
overlooks,  or  despises.  His  main  attitude 
is  one  of  amiable  indifference,  which  is, 
indeed,  his  little  weakness,  for  it  blinds  him 
to  the  possible  strength  of  what  he  does  not 
consider  worth  guarding  against.  I  asked 
a  distinguished  Englishman  if  he  often  went 
abroad.  "No,"  he  said,  quite  without 
humour,  "I  hate  meeting  so  many  for- 
eigners." 

It  is  this  British  attitude  which  so  en- 
dears him  to  the  world  at  large,  already 
exasperated  by  a  little  way  he  has  of  appro- 
priating to  himself  nice,  big  slices  of  the 
earth.  His  enemies  quite  forget  how  he 
promptly  turns  these  nice,  big  slices  into 
civilised  lands,  which  he  throws  open  to  the 
rest  of  the  world.  It  is,  possibly,  as  com- 
pensation, that  the  world  turns  over  to  him 


Kitchen   Comedies 


its  surplus  hungry  and  idle  population,  who 
gather  up  English  pennies  with  which  they 
later  on  return  to  their  various  fatherlands, 
where  they  at  once  join  the  army  of  the 
bitter  Anglophobes.  And  is  not  the  dingy 
foreign  servant  one  of  the  innumerable 
birds  of  prey  that  fill  their  poor,  starved 
stomachs  with  English  victuals  ?  No  won- 
der the  English  are  so  unpopular! 

The  English  servant  requires  to  be  studied. 
The  world's  other  servants  are  mere  ama- 
teurs, the  EngUsh  servant  has  a  trade.  As 
an  American,  I  proceeded  to  treat  mine  a 
rJmericaine,  and  I  made  my  first  blunder. 
A  sensible  American  is,  if  not  friends  with 
her  servants,  at  least  friendly.  The  Eng- 
lishwoman, if  she  is  sensible,  presents  to  her 
servants  a  surface  of  perfect  indifference, 
and  then  she  has  peace,  for  the  English 
servant  despises  a  considerate  and  kindly 
mistress  as  not  knowing  her  place. 

The  most  difficult  thing  for  a  stranger  to 
learn  is  that  impalpable  line  between  the 
different  servants'  duties.  If  one  does  not 
enumerate  what  one  expects  of  them  when 
they  are  hired,  afterwards  it  is  too  late. 
They    have,   however,   a    rough    sense    of 

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honour  and  they  generally  do  what  they 
agree  to. 

According  to  the  very  common  American 
custom,  our  house  is  furnished  with  speak- 
ing-tubes, and  these  nearly  lost  me  a  very 
superior  cook.  She  was  so  superior  that 
I  was  more  polite  to  her  than  to  any  other 
human  being;  only  when  I  was  quite  sure 
she  could  not  hear,  then  did  I  call  her  by 
her  pet  name.  Lady  Macbeth.  As  I  was 
looking  timidly  through  the  larder  one  morn- 
ing she  gave  me  notice.  I  never  had  a  ser- 
vant who  had  such  lovely  kitchen  manners; 
her  unfailing  impudence  was  veneered  by 
the  most  perfect  propriety.  "It's  the  speak- 
ing-tubes; I've  nothing  else  to  complain  of; 
but  I  won't  be  talked  to  through  the  tubes. 
It's  against  my  dignity  to  have  other  ser- 
vants listen." 

This  time  I  pacified  her,  but  later  on  I 
hurt  her  beyond  forgiveness;  I  had  sent  the 
housemaid  to  call  her  one  morning  when  she 
was  very  late.  On  my  usual  kitchen  visit 
I  found  Lady  Macbeth  palpitating  with 
rage  —  she,  a  "cook-housekeeper,"  called 
by  the  housemaid;  she  gave  notice  at  once, 
and  I  realised  then  that  there  is  no  such 
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snob    as   a   servant,   and    there   is   nothing 
more  unyielding  than  kitchen  etiquette. 

The  terrors  of  etiquette  below  stairs! 
There  once  strayed  into  my  employ  a  house- 
maid whose  career,  hitherto,  had  been  con- 
fined to  lodging-houses.  Upstairs  she  al- 
ways looked  frightened,  and  her  face  had  a 
great  attraction  for  "smuts";  but  she  was 
very  willing  and  very  incompetent.  It  is 
my  experience  that  the  willing  are  mostly 
incompetent.  It  was  in  the  reign  of  Lady 
Macbeth,  a  tall,  fair  person,  with  blonde 
eyes  and  a  cast-iron  jaw. 

"It  is  not  for  me  to  ask  Madam  to  send 
Muggins  away,  but  the  rest  of  us  will  go  if 
Muggins  stays.  I  don't  know  where  she 
has  lived-out  before,  but  she  drinks  out  of 
her  saucer  and  does  not  even  know  that  we 
expect  her  to  be  down  in  our  sitting-room 
at  half-past  four,  dressed  in  her  black,  and 
ready  to  pour  out  the  servants'  tea."  Of 
course,  I  gave  Muggins  notice,  recognising 
that  the  lodging-house  was  her  proper  sphere, 
and  in  the  month  that  followed  I  knew  she 
suffered  martyrdom.  She  used  to  wipe  her 
eyes  stealthily,  and  as  she  was  not  proud  I 
showed  her  some  sympathy. 
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**They  ain't  nice  to  me  downstairs  like 
you  are,  Ma'am,"  she  sobbed,  "though  I'm 
doing  my  best.  Cook  says  she  won't  wipe 
up  the  dishes  for  the  hkes  of  me." 

"Never  mind.  Muggins;  you'll  be  going 
soon  and,  after  all,  you  have  learnt  a  good 
deal  here,"  I  consoled  her. 

"I  wish,"  said  Muggins,  "I  was  dead." 
Thus  I  discovered  in  Muggins  an  unex- 
pected and  interesting  note  of  tragedy,  but 
she  melted  away  as  they  all  do;  one  does 
not  remember  them  as  individuals  but  as 
materialised  qualities,  good  or  bad.  How- 
ever, some  months  after,  I  again  encountered 
Muggins,  looking  like  a  bad  imitation  of  a 
very  middle-class  young  lady,  in  a  huge  hat 
like  a  cart-wheel,  nodding  with  plumes, 
beside  her  an  underdone  youth,  a  bowler 
on  the  back  of  his  head,  so  as  to  show  the 
fine,  bold  sweep  of  his  shiny  black  hair. 

Muggins's  smile  showed  that  she  had 
learnt  a  thing  or  two.  Never  more  would 
she  drink  tea  out  of  a  saucer,  nor  plunge  her 
knife  into  a  mouth  which,  when  we  first 
met,  was  guiltless  of  front  teeth.  Now  I  at 
once  recognised  the  gloss  of  six  brand-new 
"store  teeth."  On  the  strength  of  what 
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she  had  learnt  in  my  service  she  had  gradu- 
ated to  higher  spheres,  where  she  could 
afford  the  luxury  of  a  young  man  with 
whom  to  "walk  out."  It  seems  a  servant's 
aim  and  ambition  is  to  set  up  a  young  man 
with  whom  she  walks  out  —  the  final  goal 
being  rarely  matrimony;  it  only  means 
speechless  strolls  through  Regent's  Park 
or  Kensington  Gardens,  or  the  joyous  revels 
at    Earl's    Court,    if   "she"    stands   treat. 

Oddly  enough,  the  English  lover  of  the 
lower  class  is  always  speechless  but  very 
affectionate  in  public.  The  American  of 
the  same  class  is  publicly  prudish.  It  is, 
therefore,  rather  startling,  as  a  blushing 
stranger,  to  see  the  loving  couples  that  emerge 
out  of  the  leafy  paths  of  Kensington  Gar- 
dens, clasping  each  other's  waists,  holding 
hands,  or  engaged  in  other  miscellaneous 
fondling,  which  is  probably  the  safety- 
valve  that  nature  provides  for  those  whose 
general  and  business  expression  is  a  total 
blank. 

In  the  course  of  time,  Muggins  was  suc- 
ceeded by  Jane;  Jane  of  the  Madonna  face, 
a  voice  like  a  summer  breeze,  and  her  work 
divine.     I    basked    in    unaccustomed    joy 

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until,  unfortunately,  one  morning  I  asked 
her  to  send  off  an  important  telegram  for 
me.  "No,"  she  said,  in  her  sweet  voice, 
"I  won't  go  out  this  filthy  morning."  In 
the  afternoon  I  so  far  regained  my  scattered 
senses  as  to  call  up  Jane  and  give  her  notice. 
For  an  instant  she  turned  white,  then  she 
recovered  herself. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  Madam,"  she  said, 
with  respectful  effrontery,  "I  shall  not  take 
your  notice.  Servants  do  not  need  to  take 
any  notice  after  noon." 

"All  the  same  you  have  had  your  notice; 
but  I  will,  if  you  wish,  repeat  it  to-morrow 
morning,"  I  said,  rather  amused. 

The  next  morning  I  had  barely  set  my 
foot  in  the  dining-room  when  Jane  flew  in, 
"I  wish  to  give  you  notice.  Ma'am,"  she 
cried,  in  a  gasp.  I  recognised  that  I  was 
defeated,  for  by  some  menial  code  of  honour 
she  felt  that  she  could  tell  her  next  lady 
that  she  had  given  me  notice.  Whether 
the  custom  is  legal  or  not,  registry  offices 
are  not  agreed,  but  I  am  now  careful  to  give 
notice  before  noon. 

The  restlessness  of  the  English  servants, 
fanned  by  the  Board  Schools  and  higher 
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aspirations  towards  department  stores,  has 
produced  the  temporary  servant.  She  flits 
from  one  distressed  family  to  the  other, 
and  is  at  anyone's  beck  and  call  at  a  mo- 
ment's notice;  nor  does  she  harrow  her  lady's 
feelings  by  staying  that  awful  last  month, 
when  having  done  her  worst  she  is  invul- 
nerable. 

She  has,  of  course,  her  disadvantages, 
along  with  her  advantages.  She  takes 
naturally  no  earthly  interest  in  her  place 
(but  none  of  them  do!)  for  she  flits  Uke  a 
grubby  butterfly  from  one  area  to  the  other; 
she  is,  however,  usually  quite  competent. 
Her  example,  on  the  other  hand,  is  bad,  for 
she  gets  high  wages,  a  varied  existence,  and 
plenty  of  holidays,  and,  being  temporary  and 
independent,  she  does  not  work  too  hard. 

There  is  really  nothing  so  fatal  as  aspira- 
tions in  the  wrong  place;  to  them  we  owe 
the  servant  problem.  Now,  the  average 
man  will  sniffs  at  the  servant  problem  and, 
unless  he  has  a  great,  broad  mind,  he  will 
say  to  the  partner  of  some  of  his  joys  and  all 
of  his  sorrows,  "You  don't  know  how  to 
treat  your  servants.  My  clerks  don't  bother 
me." 

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As  if  that  were  the  same  thing  at  all! 
Men's  places  are  easily  filled,  and  the  aver- 
age man  is  so  anchored  by  domestic  ties  that 
he  thinks  several  times  before  he  gives  Yearn- 
ing, as  indeed  would  a  servant  if  she  had 
a  family  depending  on  her  earnings.  But 
a  servant  usually  has  no  ties.  Her  clothes 
are  in  her  tin  trunk,  and  her  hopes  in  the 
registry  office;  thus,  accompanied  by  the  one 
and  protected  by  the  other,  she  goes  on  her 
winding  way.  If  she  had  an  idle  or  sick 
husband  and  half-a-dozen  children  to  sup- 
port, her  attitude  towards  service  would 
be  less  lofty. 

Coming  often  from  very  poor  homes,  it 
is  a  curious  fact  that  servants  are  always 
extravagant,  at  any  rate  with  other  people's 
belongings.  Lady  Macbeth,  under  whose 
dominion  I  languished  for  over  three  years, 
once  confessed  to  me  that  she  prided  herself 
on  her  economy,  which,  she  said,  proved 
her  to  be  of  a  different  class  from  other 
servants. 

Once,  in   a  gracious  moment,  she  also 

told  me  she  preferred  being  a  good  cook 

rather  than  a  poor  nursery  governess  who, 

in  the  dehcate  and  unwritten  code  of  service, 

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is  on  a  higher  social  scale,  hovering,  I  believe 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  lady  pinnacle.  She 
was  kind  enough  to  add  that  she  would 
rather  cook  for  some  one  she  could  look  up 
to  than  teach  a  lot  of  stupid  young  ones. 
I  was  highly  flattered,  and  so  was  the  other 
member  of  my  family,  and  we  tried  hard 
to  live  up  to  her  good  opinion.  But  no 
man  is  a  hero  to  his  valet,  and  she  never 
repeated  the  compliment. 

It  is  unfortunately  true  that  domestic 
troubles,  like  rheumatism,  toothache,  and 
sea-sickness,  from  which  one  can  suffer 
untold  agonies,  never  arouse  a  proper  sym- 
pathy. A  man  takes  his  business  seriously 
enough,  but  he  never  takes  his  wife's  house- 
keeping seriously. 

**What  in  the  world  do  you  do  all  day 
long  ?"  is  his  kindly,  scornful  cry;  as  if  there 
were  nothing  to  do!  Yet  it  is  that  which 
gives  women  grey  hairs  and  nervous  pros- 
tration, and  forms  an  endless  topic  of  con- 
versation among  those  who  would  gladly 
avoid  the  subject.  It  requires  cast-iron, 
steel-bound  nerves  to  confront  rebellion  in 
the  kitchen,  simply  because  of  the  terror  of 
going   from    bad    to    worse.     That    awful 

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pilgrimage  to  the  registry  office,  those  hide- 
ous interviews,  that  terrible  month  of  pro- 
bation —  your  probation  as  well  as  hers. 
I  defy  two  women  to  get  together  and  not 
talk  "servants"  before  the  end  of  the  con- 
versation. Not  even  intellect  will  save  you 
the  flight  to  that  inferno,  the  Registry 
Office. 

There  is  one  figure  the  dramatist  of  the 
future  will  never  again  be  able  to  employ, 
and  that  is  the  ancient  retainer.  Never 
again  will  he  follow  his  unfortunate  master 
and  mistress  into  exile,  or  lay  down  his  life 
for  them,  or  give  up  to  them  his  humble 
earnings.  Not  only  will  the  species  be  ex- 
tinct, but  the  very  tradition  of  it  will  have 
passed  away. 

The  twenty-first  century  baby  is  destined 
to  be  rocked  and  cradled  by  electricity, 
warmed  and  coddled  by  electricity,  perhaps 
fathered  and  mothered  by  electricity.  Prob- 
ably the  only  thing  he  will  be  left  to  do 
unaided  will  be  to  make  love;  and  yet,  pos- 
sibly, that  also  is  another  form  of  electricity. 
At  any  rate,  the  ancient  retainer  is  doomed, 
and  it  is  the  ancient  retainer's  fault.  He 
has  shown  his  decreasing  interest  in  the 
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family,  so  no  wonder  the  family  takes  no 
further  interest  in  him.  Job  servants  supply 
his  place,  and  in  illness  a  trained  nurse  does 
as  well,  if  not  much  better. 

Alas,  it  is  a  materialistic,  utilitarian  age 
and,  if  they  did  but  know  it,  neither  master 
nor  servant  can  afford  to  stifle  what  remains 
of  loyalty  and  affection.  There  are  some 
things  for  which  money  will  not  pay,  strange 
though  it  may  seem  in  these  days  when 
everything  has  its  price.  The  life  which 
cultivates  no  feeling  but  indifference  is  to 
be  deplored  both  for  master  and  man. 

There  is  something  which  makes  of  labour 
a  higher  thing  than  a  mere  barter.  If  that 
something  really  existed,  we  would  not  have 
that  ceaseless,  perpetually  changing  proces- 
sion with  tin  trunks;  personally,  I  should 
not  feel  so  much  that  I  was  keeping  a  board- 
ing-house for  strangers,  whom  I  pay  instead 
of  their  paying  me.  If  any  of  the  old  spirit 
were  still  left,  servants  would  not  be  sent 
adrift  to  shift  for  themselves  when  their 
best  days  are  over,  and  we  should  still  see 
that  phenomenon,  an  old  servant. 

What  becomes  of  old  servants  ^.  It  is  a 
mystery.     Some  possibly  become  meek,  and 

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keep  lodging-houses;  others,  meeker  still, 
become  caretakers.  Can  human  imagina- 
tion conjure  up  a  more  dismal  fate  ?  To 
be  the  companion  of  beetles  and  mice;  to 
vegetate  in  a  basement,  gloomy  with  the 
abysmal  gloom  of  London,  and  silent  with 
the  monumental  silence  of  a  deserted  house! 

Why  not  think  of  the  possible  future,  that 
giddy,  independent  day,  when  to  give  notice, 
and  feast  on  the  consequent  anguish,  is  a 
cool  rapture  ?  Once  only  I  met  an  ex- 
parlour  maid  who  rose  superior  to  fate.  She 
had  become  useful  by  the  day.  Then,  un- 
expectedly, a  subtle  change  came  over  her 
— she  also  aspired.  She  couldn't  give  warn- 
ing, which  would  have  been  her  natural  out- 
let, but  she  felt  that  she  owed  something  to 
her  dignity  before  the  other  servants.  From 
henceforth,  she  announced,  she  would  really 
have  to  come  in  by  the  front  door.  I  sub- 
mitted, and  the  area  steps  know  her  no  more. 

It  is  a  comfort  not  to  be  required  to  solve 
the  problems  of  a  future  generation.  I  saw, 
however,  yesterday,  the  thin  end  of  the 
wedge  in  the  form  of  a  little  red  cart,  in 
front  of  a  house  before  which  the  usual 
*' Sidewalk  Committee,"  as  they  call  it  in 

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America,  was  gathered,  lazily  critical.  Rub- 
ber tubes  led  from  the  cart  into  the  open 
windows  of  a  room,  and  a  gentleman,  appar- 
ently of  elegant  leisure,  in  uniform,  super- 
intended proceedings.  For  a  moment  I 
suspected  fire,  but  seeing  the  calm,  unruffled, 
unsoiled,  unwatered  appearance  of  every- 
thing, it  suddenly  flashed  through  my  mind 
that  what  I  so  often  had  predicted  was 
being  fulfilled.  Science  was  solving  the 
domestic  problem! 

If  we  can  clean  a  house  by  air,  without  the 
presence  of  a  servant,  before  long  some  great 
man  will  teach  us  to  cook  in  the  same  way. 
Some  day  electricity  will  release  us  from 
bondage.  A  cook  will  then  be  as  unneces- 
sary as  a  'bus  horse.  Then  let  the  young 
person,  who  now  aspires  to  the  factory  and 
the  department  stores,  threaten;  we  shall 
not  care.  Indeed,  then  may  come  our 
sweet  time  of  revenge,  for  the  department 
stores  will  be  undoubtedly  overcrowded, 
and  the  young  person  with  the  yellow  tin 
trunk  will  then  join  a  different  procession 
in  the  days  of  that  happy  millennium. 

Gladly  would  I  have  shaken  hands  with 
the  gentleman  who  was  superintending  the 

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red  cart,  as  the  outward  and  visible  promise 
of  a  new  liberty,  but  I  feared  he  might  not 
understand. 

If  one  might  offer  a  suggestion  to  our 
great  and  glorious  Republic  across  the  sea 
in  regard  to  any  possible  change  in  her 
coinage,  it  would  be  that,  rather  than  the 
worthy  lady  with  the  Phrygian  cap,  it  should 
bear  the  figure  of  the  new  ''vacuum- 
cleaner,"  with  its  attendant  Man;  that 
represents  something  real,  something  up- 
to-date.  The  lady  with  the  cap  and  stars 
is  a  myth,  but  what  have  we  poor  sufferers 
to  do  with  myths?  Let  us,  rather,  give 
credit  where  credit  is  due. 

The  other  day  there  was  sent  to  me  a 
voluminous  list  of  the  eminent  scientists  who 
are  to  lecture  before  the  Royal  Institution. 
As  I  read  their  famous  names  it  did  seem 
to  me  that  if  these  giants  of  science  would 
abstract  their  gaze  from  discovering  new 
planets,  new  continents,  new  gases,  and  new 
rays,  and  would  bring  their  mighty  intellects 
to  bear  on  what  might  be  called  kitchen 
science,  the  results  would  be  incalculable. 

Does  not  the  old  nursery  wisdom  declare, 
"Great    oaks    from    little    acorns   grow?" 

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Invent  an  electrical  cook,  an  electrical 
parlour-maid,  an  electrical  housemaid,  and 
an  electrical  boy  for  the  boots.  Think  of  the 
peace  that  will  enter  our  homes;  think  of 
the  just  retribution  that  will  overtake  those 
awful  offices  that  pocket  our  fees  and  supply 
worse  than  nothing!  Think  of  the  joy  of 
millions  of  crushed  housekeepers  who,  for 
the  first  time  in  the  history  of  the  world,  will 
be  able  to  look  a  cook  squarely  in  the  face 
and  give  her  warning!  Surely  that  is  an  aim 
which  should  satisfy  the  greatest  intellect, 
because  the  greatest  intellect  (presumably 
a  man,  a  brother,  a  father,  or  a  husband) 
demands  to  be  fed,  not  only  often,  but  well. 

Columbus  was  undoubtedly  a  great  man, 
and  the  product  of  his  time;  was  he  not  the 
first  to  do  that  little  tgg  trick,  and  did  he 
not  afterwards  discover  the  United  States 
of  America .?  But  his  fame,  mighty  and 
enduring  though  it  is,  will  pale  before  his,  the 
product  of  our  time,  the  product  of  our  dire 
necessity,  who  will  give  to  the  world  what 
is  greater  even  than  a  new  continent  —  and 
that  is  Peace. 

The  greatest  man  of  the  future  will  be 
the  Columbus  of  the  Kitchen. 
103 


Entertaining 

I  ONCE  met  an  Englishman  in  America 
who  quite  unconsciously  explained  to 
me  the  vital  difference  between  Eng- 
lish and  American  society. 
He  was  so  quiet,  so  gentlemanly,  and  so 
bored,  and  I  had  tried  my  best  to  say  things. 
At  last  I  cried  in  despair,  "You  English- 
men are  so  hard  to  entertain!"  To  which 
he  replied,  in  slow  surprise,  "But  we  don't 
want  to  be  entertained!"  and  that  is  it! 
And  as  man  moulds  the  woman,  and  the 
woman  makes  society — therefore  the  Eng- 
lish woman  makes  the  society  of  which  her 
Englishman  approves,  just  as  the  American 
makes  a  society  suitable  for  her  "men 
folks." 

Society  is  an  elusive  expression,  and  the 
human  beings  who  constitute  it  are  spread 
out  in  layers  like  the  chocolate  cake  of  our 
childhood,  and  every  layer  aspires  to  be  the 
top  one  with  the  sugar  frosting.  In  a  king- 
dom the  only  ones  who  ever  reach  that  sugar- 
coated  eminence  are  of  course  the  august 
104 


Entertaining 

reigning  family  besides  a  very  precious  and 
select  few,  who  must  be  horribly  bored  at 
having  reached  an  altitude  where  there  is  no 
need  of  further  aspiration.  After  all,  it  does 
add  a  zest  to  life  to  triumph  over  one's 
dearest  friends  and  snub  them.  Of  course 
a  reigning  family  has  the  superlative  privi- 
lege of  snubbing,  but  they  have  to  take  it 
out  in  that,  for  to  them  is  denied  the  joy 
of  "climbing." 

In  America  we  are  still  in  the  beginning 
of  things,  and  society  is  less  complex,  though 
more  so  than  formerly,  as  the  unfortunate 
result  of  increasing  wealth.  There  was  a 
golden  age  in  America,  when  different  cities 
each  required  of  its  votaries  different  quali- 
fications to  enable  them  to  enter  what  is 
called  "Society."  In  those  days,  it  is  pleas- 
ant to  testify,  it  was  what  a  man  had  done, 
intellectually  or  morally,  that  opened  to  him 
the  iron-bound  gates  of  Boston.  You  might 
be  shabby  and  poor,  and  rattle  up  to  So- 
ciety in  an  exceedingly  inelegant  vehicle 
called  a  "herdic"  (which  shot  you  out  Uke 
coal),  but  you  were  welcome  if  you  were 
literary  or  scientific,  musician  or  philan- 
thropist.    Money  looked  on  respectfully  at 

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the  great  and  shabby,  and  was  distinctly 
elbowed  into  a  corner. 

Something  grips  at  my  heart  as  I  recall 
those  bygone  days  when,  as  a  very  young 
girl,  with  a  bump  of  reverence  as  high  as 
the  Himalayas,  I  sat  in  the  corner  of  a 
splendid,  shabby  Boston  drawing-room,  and 
watched  the  great  men  and  women,  whose 
genius  has  left  its  imprint  on  American  his- 
tory and  Uterature.  They  talked  to  each 
other,  like  ordinary  human  beings,  and  re- 
freshed themselves  with  cold  coffee  and 
heavy  cake,  which  was  passed  by  such  of 
the  younger  generation  as  the  wonderful 
hostess  could  press  into  service.  It  is  re- 
membering this  wonderful  hostess  that  I 
am  impressed  by  the  truth  that  entertain- 
ing is  not  a  fine  art,  but  genius;  it  is  not 
acquired,  it  is  inborn. 

In  this  shabby  old  mansion,  with  its 
relics  of  a  bygone  splendour,  I  saw  for  the 
first  time  the  greatest  hostess  it  has  ever 
been  my  good  fortune  to  meet.  She  was 
neither  beautiful,  witty,  nor  young,  but 
she  had  the  subtle  quality  which  made  you 
at  once  at  home  in  her  genial  presence; 
which  made  you  feel  that  you  were  the  one 

lOO 


En  terta  i  n  i  ng 

guest  in  whom  she  was  interested,  and  this 
impression  she  made  on  everybody.  Such 
was  her  magnetism  that  her  spirit  inspired 
every  one,  at  least  for  the  time  being; 
a  charming  intercourse  was  the  result,  a 
geniahty  among  her  guests  who,  the  very 
next  day,  in  an  overwhelming  flood  of  shy- 
ness, would  cut  each  other  dead. 

I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  it  is 
this  abominable  shyness  which  makes  human 
beings  so  repellent  to  each  other.  It  is 
one  of  the  minor  martyrdoms  of  existence 
resulting  in  an  antagonistic  attitude,  not 
so  much  because  one  doubts  the  eligibility 
of  the  other,  but  rather  that  one  doubts 
one's  self.  The  agony  of  self-consciousness 
that  surrounds  one  as  with  a  thin  coating 
of  ice,  out  of  which  frosty  prison  one 
breathes  ice.  Did  the  other  but  know  what 
one  suffers! 

It  is  often  very  difficult  to  distinguish 
between  shyness  and  reserve,  for  one  can  be 
reserved  without  being  shy,  and  one  can 
be  shy  and  in  an  excess  of  shyness  fright- 
fully unreserved.  Though  the  English  are 
rightly  credited  with  having  brought  re- 
serve and  self-control — those  characteristics 
107 


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of  the  highest  civilization  as  well  as  the 
lowest  —  to  the  greatest  mastery,  yet  some 
of  their  amazing  silence  and  immobility  I 
believe  to  be  shyness.  It  is  a  comfort  to 
think  so  because,  when  one's  vivacious  dis- 
position occasionally  hurls  one  against  an 
icy  obstacle,  it  pains. 

The  English  self-control  —  the  result  of 
generations  of  self-controlled  ancestors  — 
makes  heroes  in  the  battlefield,  but  some- 
times it  also  makes  of  its  bravest  officers  but 
foolhardy  leaders  of  men.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  national  pride  to  suppress  emotion 
retaliates  on  nature  in  a  perfectly  legitimate 
way;  the  emotion  one  suppresses,  like  all 
unused  functions,  ends  by  weakening,  then 
disappearing.  Not  that  the  English  are 
without  emotion,  but  compared  to  other 
nationalities,  the  average  Englishman's  emo- 
tions are  not  easily  stirred.  Self-control 
is  a  very  inspiring  quality,  but  it  is  not 
so  wonderful  when  the  nature  exercising  it 
is  tuned  to  a  low  key.  English  supremacy 
is  so  great  that  English  self-control,  is  the 
fashion,  but  while  an  Englishman's  self- 
control  is  the  icy  covering  to  a  quiet,  placid 
mountain;  the  control  a  Frenchman  or  an 
io8 


E  ntertaini  ng 

Italian  assumes  is  the  ice  veneering  a 
volcano. 

Human  nature  is,  to  a  certain  extent, 
everywhere  the  same,  and  its  simple  and 
primal  virtues  ai:e  the  same,  only  modified 
by  race  and  climate.  A  man  may  be  panic- 
stricken  in  disaster,  not  through  cowardice, 
but  because  of  uncontrolled  imagination. 
No  one  will  deny  the  superlative  bravery  of 
the  French,  but  it  is  equally  impossible  to 
deny  that  in  panics  they  sometimes  lose 
their  heads.  In  such  circumstances  the 
Frenchman  does  not  show  to  the  same  ad- 
vantage as  the  Englishman,  not  because  of 
a  lack  of  bravery,  but  because  he  possesses 
a  fiery  imagination.  A  Frenchman  sees  not 
only  the  present  disaster,  but  he  sees  the 
results  far  into  the  dim  future;  the  English- 
man, with  controlled  imagination,  if  any, 
applies  himself  to  a  hurried  view  of  the 
situation,  and  wastes  no  time  on  a  thought 
of  the  future. 

I  knew  an  American  of  English  descent 
who  found  himself  in  a  burning  German 
theatre  one  night.  In  the  instant  there 
was  a  panic,  and  a  frantic  woman  clung 
to  his  arms  and  implored  him  to  save  her. 
109 


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He  was  very  near-sighted,  and  in  the  con- 
fusion his  eyeglasses  had  fallen  off.  "I 
certainly  will,"  he  said,  reassuringly,  *'if 
you  will  just  let  me  put  on  my  glasses." 
Then  he  climbed  upon  the  seat,  calmly 
gauged  a  possible  chance  of  escape,  and 
rescued  his  companion  and  himself.  Yet 
the  imagination  which  in  certain  circum- 
stances results  in  disaster,  under  others  gives 
a  man  a  charm  which  makes  his  compan- 
ionship a  delight. 

We  Americans  are  a  composite  race;  we 
have  the  coolness  of  the  English,  as  well  as 
the  nervous  tension  of  multiples  of  races, 
exaggerated  by  that  glowing  air,  which  has 
been  wittily  called  "free  champagne."  The 
warring  of  these  various  elements  promises 
results  that  cannot  be  foreseen  in  a  nation 
which  boasts  of  being  Anglo-Saxon,  what- 
ever that  may  mean. 

Years  ago  I  remember  the  wrecking  of  a 
little  pleasure  boat  near  a  famous  island 
on  the  coast  of  Maine,  and  with  what  hero- 
ism the  young  men  of  the  party  saved  them- 
selves; that  is  where  the  foreign  element 
brought  with  it  a  too  active  imagination. 
Now  the  atmosphere  and  the  foreign  ele- 

IIO 


Entertat  n  i  ng 

ment  in  our  blood  make  us  a  nervous,  high- 
strung  people,  aggressively  entertaining, 
and  clamouring  to  be  entertained. 

In  no  way  has  the  American  invasion 
proved  more  triumphant  than  in  the  subtle 
change  it  is  producing  in  the  new  genera- 
tion of  English  girls.  The  English  woman, 
Hke  the  clever  antagonist  she  is,  studies  the 
skilful  weapons  with  which  the  other  has 
established  her  captivating  supremacy,  and 
is  proceeding  to  use  the  same. 

The  new  English  girl  has  a  charm  and  a 
vivacity,  when  she  is  not  hampered  by  tra- 
dition, which  must  make  the  American  girl 
look  to  her  laurels.  It  will,  of  course,  take 
her  some  time  to  let  her  spirit  sparkle  be- 
hind those  statuesque  features;  still,  she  is 
undoubtedly  on  the  road  to  vivacity.  But 
the  unbending  and  expressionless  matron 
and  immovable  and  monosyllabic  young 
girl  are  still  to  the  fore.  A  wintry  smile  on 
the  matron's  lips,  enough  to  chill  the  most 
cordial  guest,  and  the  strangled  remarks 
of  the  young  girl  and  her  slow,  cold  eyes, 
are  the  triumphant  results  of  the  nation  of 
the  self-controlled.  Those  cold  eyes  and  that 
slow  smile  that  have  in  them  not  the  ghost 
III 


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of  humour.  To  get  behind  the  eyes  and  the 
smile,  to  discover  some  inward  fire!  Is  there 
any  ?  One  looks  with  envy  at  those  faces 
which,  from  the  lowest  up,  possess  that  in 
common  that  it  is  impossible  to  penetrate 
into  the  real  self. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  what  might  be 
called  the  national  manner  is  not  conducive 
to  geniality  of  intercourse. 

The  power  a  hostess  has  to  blight  a  crowd 
of  people  with  her  own  frost!  There  is 
the  hostess  who  greets  you  as  if  she  had 
never  seen  you  before,  and  accepts  your 
hand  as  if  it  were  a  slice  of  cold  fish;  there 
is  the  haughty  hostess  who  shakes  hands 
limply  while  she  looks  over  your  head  at  a 
superior  guest;  there  is  the  vague  hostess 
who  smiles  liberally,  but  sees  you  not;  then 
there  is  the  hostess  with  the  surface  geniality, 
who,  with  a  hurried  glance  at  you,  gushes 
inquiries  across  you  at  the  nearest  man. 
There  are  as  many  varieties  of  hostesses  as 
there  are  women,  and  they  one  and  all  drop 
you,  and  you  merge  into  the  army  of  starers, 
sometimes  saved  by  an  introduction  to  some 
other  shipwrecked  mariner  with  whom  you 
escape  to  the  tea-room. 

112 


Entertaining 

The  American  fashion  of  dispensing 
afternoon  tea  is  very  pretty,  and  should  be 
introduced  here.  Instead  of  leaving  the 
serving  of  light  tefreshments  to  the  ser- 
vants, the  American  hostess  chooses  several 
of  the  prettiest  girls  she  knows,  and  gives 
them  the  task  of  pouring  out  the  tea,  coffee, 
and  chocolate  at  a  centre  table  decorated 
with  flowers,  lighted  candles,  and  all  that 
coquettish  art  of  which  the  American  woman 
is  past-mistress.  The  table  should  accom- 
modate four  girls,  who,  in  their  smartest 
party  toilettes,  are  at  once  ornamental  and 
useful,  and  the  centre  of  attraction.  They 
take  away  something  of  the  stiffness  which  is 
inevitable  among  a  crowd  of  people,  many 
of  whom  are  strangers  to  each  other.  Hav- 
ing to  ask  for  a  cup  of  tea  from  a  pretty  girl 
instead  of  a  servant  is  pleasant,  and  gen- 
erally leads  to  conversation,  and  it  is  con- 
sidered the  greatest  compliment  a  hostess 
can  confer  if  she  asks  you  to  "pour"  for 
her.  The  more  original  the  hostess,  the 
more  charming  can  she  make  her  "teas," 
and  what  is  usually  a  rather  dreary  function 
may  be  made  entertaining  and  graceful. 

The  English  hostess,  ignoring  her  pretty 

113 


The   Champagne   Standard 

chance,  leaves  the  tea-table,  if  there  are 
many  guests,  to  her  servants.  I  once  in- 
vited an  English  girl  to  '*pour"  tea  for 
me,  and  she  discomfited  me  exceedingly 
by  asking  why  I  did  not  get  the  servants 
to  do  it!  And  I  had  meant  to  pay  her  a 
compliment! 

What  a  social  comfort  a  hat  is!  It  gives 
one  so  much  moral  courage.  It  is  less  terrible 
to  encounter  society  in  a  hat;  one  can  take 
refuge  in  it  from  the  coldest  blast.  But  in 
the  evening,  garlanded  with  roses  and 
deserted,  so  to  speak,  by  God  and  man, 
society  is  a  trial. 

There  is  no  greater  matryrdom  for  the 
middle-aged  than  baring  their  shoulders  to 
the  bitter  air  and  transporting  them  to  an 
evening  function.  To  shiver  for  an  instant 
in  the  smile  of  the  hostess,  and  then  sub- 
side against  the  wall,  while  the  young  and 
ardent  flirt  about  with  members  of  the  other 
sex;  or  if  they  don't  flirt,  they  appear  to, 
which  is  just  as  well.  A  very  beautiful 
woman  once  confessed  to  me  in  a  moment 
of  sincerity  that  she  would  be  ashamed  to 
be  seen  talking  to  another  woman  at  an 
evening  party.  "I  would  rather  be  with 
114 


En  terta  i  n  i  ng 

the  most  idiotic  man,  and  look  as  if  I  were 
flirting  hard,  than  talk  to  the  most  brilliant 
woman  in  the  room.  I  always  avoid  women 
at  parties." 

It  is  not  an  age  for  conversation;  our 
small-talk  is  soon  exhausted,  and  for  a 
woman  to  talk  at  length,  labels  her  as  a 
rock  to  be  avoided.  How  can  we  have 
salons^  we  who  cannot  converse  ?  We  are 
the  products  of  the  daily  papers,  and  our 
conversation  is  like  their  familiar  small- 
talk  column.  So  we  have  to  have  artificial 
aids  to  entertaining. 

We  are  recited  to,  sung  to,  played  to,  and 
there  being  nothing  so  "cussed"  as  human 
nature,  no  sooner  are  we  played  to  and  re- 
cited to  than  our  "cussedness"  will  out, 
and  we  are  seized  with  a  wild  longing  to 
talk,  and  talk  we  do  at  the  top  of  our  voices. 
Universal  resentment  is  expressed  towards 
the  blameless  arts  that  temporarily  check 
our  interchange  of  what  it  would  be  flattery 
to  call  ideas,  but,  in  my  own  experience, 
when  some  stray  man  and  I  have  stood  to- 
gether speechless,  no  sooner  did  the  piano 
break  into  our  appalling  silence  than  ideas 
seemed  to  inundate  us.     The  dumb  man 

115 


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spoke  as  if  by  magic,  and  I,  who  hitherto  had 
nothing  to  say,  couldn't  talk  fast  enough. 

The  divine  arts  are  too  good  to  be  wasted 
in  a  twentieth  century  drawing-room!  Such 
conversation  as  there  is,  is  amply  accom- 
panied by  the  pianola  and  the  gramophone. 
These  two  awful  inventions  are  to  music 
what  the  chromo  is  to  painting.  They 
make  music  as  vulgar  as  machine-made 
lace. 

My  first  experience  of  the  pianola  was 
at  the  Universal  Provider's.  It  was  Christ- 
mas time,  and  I  was  so  tired  and  harassed 
that  I  stood  quite  still  in  the  surging  crowd, 
oblivious  of  the  sharp  elbows  of  my  shop- 
ping sisters,  oblivious  of  dust  and  microbes, 
only  conscious  that  I  was  dizzy  with  fatigue. 
Suddenly  through  the  crowd  I  heard  the 
familiar  strains  of  the  great  romantic  polo- 
naise of  Chopin — the  one  introduced  by 
the  exquisite  Andante  Spianato,  It  is  a 
mediaeval  romance  without  words,  of  chiv- 
alry, tournaments,  gallant  cavaliers,  and 
beautiful  women;  all  this  I  heard  in  the 
piano  department  of  the  Universal  Pro- 
vider. 

I  couldn't  understand  it!  What  great 
ii6 


E n terta inin  g 

artist  could  so  far  forget  himself  as  to  play 
this  divine  work  for  a  passing,  heedless, 
irritable  crowd.  I  pushed  my  way  past  my 
sisters,  and  possibly  used  my  elbows.  As  I 
came  nearer  I  grew  confused  by  something 
exasperatingly  perfect  in  the  sound.  The 
humanity  of  a  single  false  note  was  wanting. 
I  reached  the  crowd  about  the  piano  —  well, 
everybody  has  seen  a  pianola!  An  imita- 
tion artist  (he  had  long  fair  hair)  steered 
the  music  and  pumped  in  the  expression  at 
the  proper  place,  while  the  indefatigable 
instrument  ejected  miles  of  punctured 
paper. 

Never  did  anything  so  get  on  my  nerves! 
I  nearly  wept.  It  is,  perhaps,  needless  to 
say  that  the  pianola  and  other  instruments 
of  its  kind  are  of  American  origin,  and,  like 
all  American  inventions,  they  are  labour- 
saving.  You  can  be  a  Paderewski  while 
you  wait,  but,  thank  Heaven!  no  ingenious 
American  has  yet  invented  a  mechanical 
Joachim! 

The  first  modest  invention,  the  grand- 
parent of  the  pianola,  was  exhibited  in 
Boston  (America)  years  and  years  ago,  and 
was  a  modest  httle  box,  with  only  a  small 
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appetite  for  punctured  paper.  One  of  the 
judges  of  the  musical  instruments  at  the 
exhibition  showed  me  this  curious  music- 
box,  to  which,  because  of  its  ingenuity,  they 
had  decided  to  give  a  prize.  Now  the  in- 
strument has  waxed  greater  and  greater, 
and  no  one  is  safe  from  it,  no,  not  if  you 
go  to  the  farthest  desert  or  highest  moun- 
tain. It  graces  afternoon  teas,  while  the 
guests  refresh  themselves  in  stunned  silence, 
or  shriek  at  the  top  of  their  voices  in  vain 
rivalry,  until  they  melt  into  the  street,  where 
the  turmoil  of  cabs,  carts,  vans,  and  motors 
is  soothing  and  peaceful  by  comparison. 

For  a  stranger  to  penetrate  into  typical 
English  social  circles  is  often  a  blighting 
experience.  If  the  hostess  is  a  woman  of 
the  world,  she  comes  to  your  assistance;  but 
if  she  is  the  woman  of  an  island,  you  find 
yourself  stranded,  unintroduced,  and  sur- 
rounded by  more  or  less  handsome  and 
statuesque  creatures,  who  would  possibly 
be  delighted  to  talk  to  you  if  you  were 
introduced — or  possibly  not. 

Oh,  the  debatable  question  of  introduc- 
tion! One  sometimes  thinks  that  in  Eng- 
land people  go  into  society  just  to  avoid 
ii8 


Entertaining 

each  other;  at  least  so  it  would  appear  from 
the  ardent  way  in  which  they  decline  to  be 
introduced.  Conventional  smart  English 
society  does  not  introduce,  and  that  sets 
the  fashion. 

Society  knows  too  many  people,  and  re- 
fuses to  know  more;  and  its  young  men, 
having  at  their  command  only  two  feet 
apiece,  also  refuse  to  be  introduced,  for 
they  cannot  extend  the  field  of  their  activ- 
ities. The  young  man's  toil  consists  largely 
in  duty  dances,  for  the  only  way  he  can  pay 
a  worried  mother  for  a  dinner-party  is  by 
dancing  with  her  daughter,  who  still  hangs 
fire.  So  his  path  is  not  always  strewn  with 
roses.  Still  his  is  easier  than  the  "gal's," 
for  he  can  decline  to  be  introduced  to  her, 
and  he  does  this  often  with  the  little  ca- 
prices and  insolence  of  a  society  belle. 

"Do  let  me  introduce  you  to  my  cousin," 
said  a  generous  young  soul  to  her  partner, 
"  she  is  such  a  nice  ' gal. 

"Please  don't;  I  should  have  to  dance 
with  her,  and  I  am  full  up,"  replied  the 
youth,  and  so  it  is.  Not  that  all  girls  are  so 
generous,  far  from  it.  It  is  the  exception 
when  they  overstep  the  bounds  and  introduce 
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an  attractive  girl  to  a  young  man.  The 
result  is  that  society  is  made  up  of  cHques, 
wheels  within  wheels,  and  the  cliques  keep 
rigidly  to  themselves,  and  the  loveliest 
young  creatures  outside  languish  against 
the  wall,  and  no  one  takes  pity  on  them. 

Many  are  the  complicated  stratagems  to 
introduce  the  young  girl  into  the  "smart  set" 
of  English  society,  and  if  the  commander- 
in-chief  ("mother")  is  not  blessed  with  the 
best  steel-covered  nerves,  she  had  better  not 
undertake  it.  The  commander-in-chief,  of 
course  a  rich  and  great  lady,  borrows  a  list 
of  unknown  young  men  from  other  hostesses 
and  invites  them  to  her  ball.  Presumably 
grateful  youths  pay  for  this  entertainment 
by  dancing  with  the  '*gal,"  but  not  always. 

After  all,  smart  society  is  alike  all  over 
the  world;  like  hotel  cooking,  it  has  no 
nationahty.  So  America  is  ceasing  to  in- 
troduce, but  this  repression  is  not  universal 
yet.  All  do  not  yet  languish  under  self- 
inflicted  boredom.  A  perfect  American 
hostess  makes  her  guests  known  to  each 
other  if  they  are  strangers,  and  though 
fashion  may  protest,  this  is  after  all  the 
only  way  to  make   a   crowd   of  mutually 

I20 


Entertaining 

unknown  people  comfortable  and  not  awk- 
ward. People,  except  those  of  great  ease 
of  manner,  will  not  speak  to  each  other  un- 
less introduced,  and  to  talk  to  some  one  with- 
out the  faint  guide-post  of  a  name  is  not 
very  interesting.  You  may  be  talking  to  a 
very  dull  stranger,  and  turn  away  bored, 
when,  had  you  but  known  that  he  was  a 
great  and  shining  light,  how  interested  you 
would  have  been,  and  how  deftly  you  would 
have  turned  the  conversation  into  the  one 
channel  the  great  one  always  loves  —  him- 
self. 

Possibly  Americans  overdo  the  introduc- 
ing; they  are  rather  apt  to  overdo  every- 
thing; it  is  the  fault  of  a  high-strung, 
nervous  temperament;  but  of  two  evils  let 
me  rather  be  torn  away  from  an  interesting 
conversation  every  few  minutes  by  a  viva- 
cious hostess,  than  be  stranded  in  a  corner 
looking  blankly  at  my  fellow  man,  for  all 
the  world  as  if  I  had  strayed  into  a  'bus  in 
a  party  gown.  Blessed  will  the  day  be 
when  the  American  invasion  will  temper 
English  society  with  its  own  possibly  rather 
effusive  geniality. 

The  fundamental  difference  between  the 

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two  nationalities  is  that  Americans  love 
strangers,  and  the  English  hate  them.  The 
Englishman  looks  with  suspicion  on  any 
one  he  doesn't  know,  root  and  branch;  the 
American  loves  him  until  he  hears  of  some- 
thing to  his  disadvantage,  or  untill  he  gets 
tired  of  him  —  which  happens. 

The  Englishman's  aversion  to  strangers 
does  not  include  the  American,  curiously 
enough.  He  does  not  call  him  a  foreigner, 
and  he  likes  him.  He  likes  him  partly  be- 
cause he  really  can't  help  it,  and  partly  out 
of  policy,  and  he  looks  charitably  at  his 
curious  and  original  ways  just  as  a  big  dog 
watches  the  gambols  of  a  frolicsome  puppy. 
He  always  remembers  that  that  puppy  is 
his  puppy,  and  that  some  day  he  will  grow 
into  a  big  dog  of  his  own  breed,  and  —  well, 
he  respects  the  breed. 

Not  that  the  American  man  is  in  England 
as  popular  as  the  American  woman;  he 
is  not.  The  charming  American  woman 
is  the  product  of  generations  of  hard-work- 
ing fathers  and  husbands  who  have  toiled 
for  her,  and  toil  for  her,  and  the  result  is 
that  in  cultivation  and  attraction  she  has 
left  her  creator  rather  behind.     When  you 

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Entertaining 

add  to  this  his  strenuous  habits  of  business 
life,  in  which  *' devil  take  the  hindmost" 
is  the  motto,  and  a  very  confident  belief  in 
his  own  ability,  and  his  country's  unmis- 
takable destiny  to  "whip  the  universe," 
it  produces  a  rather  aggressive  personality. 
So  he  is  not  as  popular  as  his  charming 
women,  because,  also,  he  represents  a 
prophecy  which  is  not  unlike  a  menace. 
Yet  the  big  dog  watches  the  gambols  of 
the  little  dog  with  tolerant  good-nature. 

Another  factor  in  favour  of  the  American 
woman  is  that  she  can  be  charming  on  two 
continents  —  the  Englishwoman  still  con- 
fines her  eff^orts  to  one  —  and  she  can  be 
charming  in  the  language  of  the  two  great- 
est nations  in  the  world.  Is  this  not  a 
magnificent  opportunity  for  her  social  genius? 
Descended,  usually,  from  all  sorts  of  races, 
America  makes  her  what  she  is,  and  then 
boastfully  sends  the  perfected  article  across 
the  water  to  the  old  countries  to  ally  her- 
self with  the  best  or  the  worst  of  their  aris- 
tocracy. That  it  is  rarely  the  case  of  King 
Cophetua  and  the  beggar-maid  one  admits; 
but,  after  all,  everything  has  its  price  in 
this  world,  and  coronets  come  dear,  except, 
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of  course,  to  that  one  privileged  class  — 
the  ladies  of  the  variety  theatres. 

In  speaking  of  the  American  man's  aggres- 
siveness, one  does  not  wish  to  imply  that  the 
Englishman  is  not  aggressive;  far  from  it. 
There  is  no  one  so  aggressive  as  an  English- 
man, but  the  difference  is  that  the  American 
is  boastfully  aggressive,  and  the  English- 
man quietly  so,  as  one  so  sure  of  himself 
and  his  belongings  that  boasting  is  super- 
fluous; which  makes  him  all  the  more 
aggravating.  The  summit  and  climax  of 
this  aggravation  is  that  the  Englishman 
does  not  know  that  he  is  aggressive,  and 
even  resents  it  in  his  beloved  Americans, 
and  never  suspects  that  his  own  want  of 
popularity  may  be  due  to  that  same  cause. 

Years  ago  it  was  the  Englishman  who  was 
the  spoilt  darling  of  nations;  now  he  is 
making  way  for  the  American.  But  his 
early  prestige  was  immense  —  it  is  still 
great,  but  it  is  a  tempered  greatness. 

In  those  days  when  he  went  to  America 
to  harvest  dollars  (he  rarely  went  for  any 
other  reason),  he  was  received  with  a  rap- 
turous humility  which  was  pathetic.  We 
grovelled  before  him,  we  suffered  his  pe- 
124 


E  n  terta  intng 

culiar  manners,  which  had  they  been  our 
own  we  should  sometimes  have  labelled  as 
bad,  as  the  eccentricities  of  a  superior  be- 
ing. We  were  flattered  when  our  resem- 
blance to  him  was  pointed  out,  and  to 
increase  it  we  created  that  particularly 
obnoxious  type,  the  Anglicised  American; 
for,  like  all  imitations,  it  is  the  caricature 
of  the  most  unpleasant  features  of  a  resem- 
blance. 

In  those  days  we  took  him  to  our  hearts, 
to  our  homes,  and  to  our  clubs,  and  when 
sometimes  we  came  to  London  to  enjoy  his 
return  civilities,  we  had  to  be  satisfied  with 
very  modest  crumbs  of  entertainment  in- 
deed. But  perhaps  the  Englishman  said, 
in  the  subtle  French  tongue,  ^^Je  paye  de 
ma  personne."     That  explains  it. 

We  spoiled  the  errant  Englishman  most 
abominably;  our  idol  got  bad  manners  and 
a  swelled  head,  and  it  always  took  him  some 
time  on  his  return  to  a  nation  that,  after 
all,  consists  of  Englishmen,  to  find  his  level 
again.  The  wife  of  a  very  distinguished 
man  complained  to  me  of  the  demoralised 
condition  in  which  her  husband  —  who  had 
gone  to  America  to  lecture  —  had  been  sent 
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The   Champagne   St  and  ar  d 

back  to  her.  *'It  will  take  me  years  to 
unspoil  him,"  she  cried.  "It's  all  the  fault 
of  your  women,  who  flatter  them  to  death! 
And  that  is  the  reason,"  she  added,  with 
some  bitterness,  ''that  Englishmen  think 
they  are  so    charming  and  clever." 

Now  that  the  Englishman  has  ceased  to 
be  so  rare  a  bird  in  America,  we  receive 
him  with  less  tumultuous  rejoicing,  and  yet 
we  still  spoil  him  if  he  is  distinguished  or 
has  a  title.  As  for  money,  it  is  no  object 
to  us  as  credentials  —  we  leave  that  to  the 
English.  A  title  .?  Oh,  yes,  we  love  a  title! 
Why  shouldn't  we .?  Does  not  the  English- 
man, according  to  Thackeray,  love  a  lord  ? 
With  all  it  represents  of  tradition,  romance, 
and  history,  is  it  a  more  ignoble  passion  for 
the  snob  than  the  worship  of  dollars,  or  more 
fatal  to  republican  principles  ? 

The  American  money-kings  are  as  surely 
creating  a  class  apart  as  ever  did  the  Eng- 
lish possessors  of  titles,  and  there  is  no 
greater  nobility  in  a  duke,  by  the  grace  of  a 
gamble  on  the  stock  exchange,  than  a  duke 
by  the  grace  of  tradition  or  history.  Both 
may  be  represented  by  very  poor  creatures, 
but  the  duke  of  history  has,  at  all  events, 
126 


E nt erta i n  i  n g 

the  traditions  of  his  ancestry  to  excuse  the 
interest  he  still  excites. 

Occasionally  one  hears  of  an  aspiring 
American,  who,  captivated  by  the  poetry  of 
sound,  buys  himself  a  title,  and  ornaments 
his  republican  breast  with  decorations  — 
the  fitting  reward  of  dollars  and  cents;  but 
such  a  one  has  lost,  if  not  his  country,  at 
least  his  sense  of  humour. 

Still,  it  is  not  our  republican  money-dukes 
who  will  make  or  mar  our  nation;  its  sta- 
bility rests  on  something  nobler.  Nor  will 
it  turn  a  great  republic  finally  into  a  king- 
dom that  we  like  titles  as  a  child  an  unaccus- 
tomed toy.  Is  it  not  dinned  into  our  ears 
that  we  are  rich,  and  that  the  best  is  not  too 
good  for  us  ?  Is  not  the  best  in  the  world 
for  us .? 

*'The  finest  jewels  are  kept  for  the 
American  market,"  a  famous  jeweller  once 
told  me.  Are  not  the  very  best  imitations 
of  the  old  masters  sold  to  us?  We  are 
willing  to  pay,  and  money  in  this  world  can 
buy  everything  except  just  one  trifle  —  con- 
tentment. Apart  from  contentment,  money 
buys  everything.  It  is  a  credential  for  virtue 
and  a  good  name.  A  miUionaire  must  be 
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The   Champagne  Standard 

good,  or  Divine  Providence  would  not  so 
have  prospered  him,  and  for  this  all-sufficient 
reason  London  takes  him  to  its  innocent  and 
gushing  heart.  Of  course  sometimes  the 
millionaire  is  not  a  real  millionaire,  but  no 
one  knows  until  he  is  found  out;  but  the 
next  best  thing  to  being  a  real,  honourable 
millionaire,  is  to  have  unlimited  credit. 
Blessed  is  the  man  who  has  credit,  for  some 
day  he  may  promote  a  company  that  will 
enable  him  to  pay  his  bills. 

Yes,  America  is  being  rewarded  for  all 
the  entertainments  she  has  lavished  on  by- 
gone Englishmen.  She  cannot  these  days 
complain  of  a  lack  of  English  hospitality. 
Columbia  has  a  "real  good  time,"  and  she 
drops  the  almighty  dollar  as  she  goes  on 
her  triumphant  way,  to  the  rapture  of  the 
English  shopkeeper. 

She  worships  English  history,  English 
titles,  and  English  cathedrals.  She  gushes 
over  all  things  great  and  good,  and  often  she 
props  up  a  rickety  aristocrat  with  the  splen- 
did strength  of  her  great  gold  dollars,  and 
not  the  stiffest  British  matron  dares  sniff  at 
her.  She  will  introduce  and  she  will  enter- 
tain, and  she  will  be  entertaining.  She  is 
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Entertaining 

often  beautiful,  and  generally  clever, —  even 
if  frothily  clever. 

Of  all  the  American  invasion  she  is  the 
most  subtly  dangerous.  You  may  keep  off 
the  American  men  with  your  fleets,  and  all 
the  terrors  of  your  newest  million  pounders, 
but  how  defend  yourself  from  the  American 
girl,  who  borrows  a  bow  and  arrow  from  a 
naughty  little  boy  lightly  dressed  in  two 
wings  and  a  blush,  and  shoots  right  into 
your  —  heart! 


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Temporary  Power 


IT  was  in  the  "tuppeny  tube"  that  the 
idea  first  came  to  me.  I  was  filing  out 
of  the  long  car  as  expeditiously  as  I 
could,  considering  that  I  had  to  dis- 
entangle my  feet  from  the  heels  of  my  fellow 
man,  when  a  stern  being  in  the  brass  buttons 
of  authority  gave  me  an  unnecessary  push, 
remarking  briefly,  "Hurry  up!"  Before  I 
could  wither  him  with  a  glance,  the  red 
light  at  the  back  of  the  train  was  winking 
jocosely  at  me,  so  there  was  nothing  left  to 
do  but  to  follow  my  fellow  sufferers,  swallow 
my  resentment  along  with  the  bad  air,  and 
proceed  to  soar  upward. 

Having  recovered  my  mental  balance  I 
began  to  laugh.  The  awful  majesty  of 
temporary  power,  from  a  protoplasm  up! 
It  is  indeed  a  curious  fact  that  the  world 
is  not  so  much  governed  by  its  ruling  classes 
as  by  the  lower  ones,  who  exercise  their  tem- 
porary tyranny  —  in  whatever  capacity  it 
be  —  with  a  colossal  arrogance  that  leaves 
the  arrogance  of  a  higher  sphere  leagues 
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Temporary   Power 


behind.  Who  has  not  seen  great  ladies, 
majestic  beings  in  their  own  drawing-rooms, 
wait  patiently  before  a  counter  while  the 
young  ''saleslady"  finished  an  interesting 
conversation  with  a  colleague  in  imitation 
diamonds.  Possibly  in  private  life  the 
young  "saleslady"  was  not  at  all  proud; 
but  place  her  behind  a  counter,  and  it  gives 
her  a  moral  support  that  makes  her  rise 
superior  to  the  aristocracy  and  crush  the 
middle  classes. 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  pathetic  sight  of 
a  distinguished  general  —  one  who  fought 
and  won  a  battle  in  the  American  Civil  War, 
that  decided  the  fortunes  of  the  North  — 
buying  a  pair  of  kid  gloves  from  a  superior 
young  person  in  a  glove  store.  He  waited 
a  long  time  very  patiently  while  she  exchanged 
a  light  badinage  with  an  idle  youth,  splendid 
in  the  tallest  kind  of  a  collar. 

"If  you  please,"  the  general  ventured, 
seeing  the  talk  was  not  of  business.  The 
haughtiness  with  which  she  turned  on  him! 
"What  do  you  want  ?" 

She  leaned  on  the  counter  with  both 
hands  in  that  most  delightfully  engaging 
and  characteristic  of  shop  attitudes.     No, 

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The   Champagne   Standard 

there  was  no  badinage  for  the  poor  general, 
and  as  he  had  no  taste  and  no  ideas,  she  sold 
him  the  most  dreadful  yellow  gloves,  with 
which  he  was  burdened  when  we  met  at 
the  door.  He  showed  them  to  me  rather 
piteously. 

''They  don't  look  right,  somehow,"  he 
sighed.  "Why  don't  you  change  them?" 
I  urged.  "  Because,"  the  great  man  whis- 
pered, whose  courage  was  famous  in  the 
land,  "because  I'm  afraid  of  her." 

Oh,  the  terrible  tyranny  of  the  shopgirls, 
or,  rather,  as  we  live  in  a  democratic  age 
and  one  is  as  good  as  the  other,  the  shop 
young  ladies.  When  one  of  them  waits 
on  me,  or,  to  be  quite  exact,  when  I  grovel 
to  her,  and  she  is  very  short  and  snappish 
and  uninterested,  I  wonder  what  can  be  the 
kind  of  superior  being  to  whom  she,  so  to 
speak,  bends  the  knee  ?  Sometimes  I  think 
it  must  be  the  shopwalker,  a  great  man,  but 
human,  except  perhaps  at  Christmas  time, 
but  then  I  suspect  he  also  may  be  afraid  of 
her. 

When  she  cries  "sign"  at  the  top  of  her 
penetrating  voice,  and  I  am  ignominiously 
proved  to  have  bought  nothing,  I  reaUse  that 
132 


Temporary   Power 


I  am  disgraced,  and  can  hardly  bear  the 
united  glances  of  the  young  lady's  scornful 
eye,  and  the  milder  but  still  reproachful 
glance  of  the  shopwalker.  He  catechises 
me  firmly  for  reasons  why  I  don't  buy,  and 
offers  me  instead  everything  under  the  sun 
that  I  don't  want.  If  my  soul  ever  pre- 
sumes to  rebel  it  is  when  the  young  lady, 
not  having  what  I  am  in  search  of,  kindly 
advises  me  as  to  what  I  really  do  want  — 
but  even  the  traditional  worm  has  been 
known  to  turn. 

There  is  a  dehcate  difference  between 
the  English  and  the  American  young  sales- 
lady. The  American,  being  the  daughter 
of  the  free,  and  distinctly  of  the  independ- 
ent, and  having  the  chance  of  being  the 
future  wife,  mother  or  mother-in-law  of 
presidents,  does  not  demean  herself  to  be 
on  a  sympathetic  footing  with  the  public. 
If  the  public  wishes  to  buy,  she  is  willing  to 
sell,  but  is  perfectly  indifferent.  Look 
wistfully  into  the  American  saleslady's  per- 
fectly cold  eye,  if  you  are  a  wobbly  lady 
and  want  some  one  to  make  up  your  mind 
for  you,  and  you  are  met  by  a  wall  of  the 
bleakest  ice;  nor  does  she  thaw  when  you 

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The   Champagne  Standard 


have  bought  for  a  large  amount.  She  calls 
*'kish"  in  a  shrill,  unmoved  voice,  which 
summons  a  small  boy  or  girl,  who  bears 
your  money  to  the  counting-house.  There- 
upon she  looks  indifferently  over  your  head 
while  you  wait  for  the  change,  and  you 
feel  that  in  spite  of  everything  you  have 
failed  to  please  her. 

The  resuh  of  this  admirable  attitude  of 
indifference  is  that  America  is  the  paradise 
of  "shoppers,"  ladies  who  have  no  inten- 
tion whatever  of  buying,  but  who  do  love 
to  see  new  things.  It  lies  really  between 
you  and  your  conscience  how  many  bales  of 
goods  you  have  unpacked  without  the  re- 
motest idea  of  purchasing  anything.  If 
at  the  end  you  m.ake  a  few  disparaging 
remarks  and  retire  from  the  scene,  the 
saleslady  replaces  the  goods,  perfectly  in- 
different as  to  your  having  bought  noth- 
ing. 

The  English  shopgirl,  on  the  other  hand, 
makes  it  a  personal  affront  if  you  do  not 
buy;  but  there  is  excuse  for  her  often  enough, 
for  in  some  shops,  unfortunately,  it  is  the 
cruel  regulation  that  if  she  misses  a  certain 
number  of  sales  she  is  discharged.  Whether 
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Temporary   Power 


it  pays  to  scare  the  saleslady  into  terrorising 
her  customers  to  death  is  a  question;  per- 
sonally, I  avoid  such  shops;  I  cannot  be 
lured  tvvice  into  buying  what  I  don't  want 
because  of  the  frown  of  the  young  lady. 
Nor  does  it  even  soothe  my  ruffled  feelings 
when  the  shopwalker  thanks  me  profusely 
as  he  countersigns  the  bill. 

Shopkeepers  should  be  very  particular  as 
to  their  young  saleslady's  nose;  the  very 
superior  kind  just  crushes  the  public.  Eng- 
land is  a  proof  that  it  is  not  the  eye  that 
is  born  to  command,  but  the  stately  Roman 
nose.  It  has  given  the  world  quite  a  wrong 
idea  of  Englishmen,  who  have  gone  on  their 
triumphant  way  in  the  wake  of  that  majestic 
feature,  to  the  alarm  and  respect  of  the  rest 
of  the  world.  Had  it  been  less  aggres- 
sive, the  world  might  possibly  now  fear 
England  less  and  love  her  more.  Yet 
such  trivialities  make  history. 

If  you  have  a  good  conscience,  the  only 
wielder  of  temporary  power  who  appears 
mighty  and  yet  mild  is  the  policeman.  To 
the  bad  conscience  he  represents  more  the 
solid  terrors  of  the  law  than  the  Lord  Chief 
Justice  himself.     He  is  the  only  creature 

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from  whom  familiarity  never  takes  away 
any  of  his  terrors. 

We  once  had  an  old  cook  who  put  it 
in  a  nutshell.  "Happy  is  he  who  can  look 
a  policeman  in  the  face,"  she  declared. 
The  wisdom  of  it!  After  all,  is  not  half 
the  world  running  away  from  retributive 
justice  ?  Think,  then,  of  the  blessing  of 
a  legaHsed  conscience.  To  be  at  peace 
with  the  policeman!  Think  of  the  rapture 
of  envy  a  poor,  hunted-down  burglar  must 
feel  as  he  sees  an  ordinary  citizen  pass 
that  awful  being  in  a  helmet  without  a 
quake. 

I  take  this  opportunity  of  offering  to  the 
great  and  pohte  one  my  little  tribute  of 
gratitude  in  the  name  of  all  the  spinsters, 
widows,  nursemaids,  and  puppy  dogs  who 
cross  the  street  in  the  security  of  his  out- 
stretched hand.  And  of  all  maiden  ladies, 
English  and  American,  who  seek  his  advice 
and  ask  him  perplexing  questions,  which 
he  alone  can  answer,  for  he  is  admittedly 
a  combination  of  the  street  directory,  the 
dictionary,  and  the  "Encyclopaedia  Britan- 
nica"  up-to-date.  I  have  often  wondered 
if  he  ever  unbends  ?  Does  he  ever  take  off 
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Temporary   Power 


his  boots  and  his  helmet,  or  does  he  sleep 
in  them  ?  Does  he  ever  sit  down  ?  It  must 
be  a  great  joy  and  pride  to  be  his  wife,  to 
be,  as  it  were,  on  such  friendly  terms  with 
the  traffic.  I  am  sure  that,  if  she  loves  him, 
she  asks  him  no  questions. 

Here,  I  really  must  digress  just  enough  to 
say  that  until  women  can  be  policemen,  and 
can  stand  like  magnificent  statues  in  the 
turmoil  of  vehicles  and  direct  the  tumult 
with  one  finger  —  without  a  moment's  con- 
fusion —  not  until  then  will  I  believe  that 
they  have  been  chosen  by  destiny  to  do 
man's  work.  Bless  the  policeman!  May 
his  wages  be  raised  —  he  deserves  it! 

The  temporary  power  of  a  cabman  is 
often  concentrated  in  a  moment  of  intense 
anguish  for  his  fare  when,  if  a  four-wheeler, 
he  rolls  off  his  box,  stares  at  the  money 
dropped  into  a  very  dirty  paw,  makes  a 
speech  which  ranges  from  reproach  to  vitu- 
peration, and  follows  you  until  a  benefi- 
cent front  door  closes  on  your  anguish. 
He  has  it  in  his  power  to  take  the  bloom 
from  the  smartest  toilette. 

There  is  no  one  in  the  whole  range  of 
civiUsation  who  has  such  a  power  to  inflict 

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humiliation  on  one  as  a  cabman!  He  has 
that  dehcate  perception  that  he  knows  just 
when  his  remarks  will  cut  like  a  lash.  He 
always  grumbles  on  principle,  and  you  would 
rather  give  him  your  whole  fortune  than 
have  him  make  a  spectacle  of  you  before 
those  other  temporaries,  the  footmen.  As 
if  he  didn't  know  it,  and  as  if  he  didn't 
always  choose  the  noblest  of  these  as  wit- 
nesses! You  know  that  you  have  overpaid 
him,  and  so  does  he,  but  he  follows  you 
with  running  remarks,  in  the  form  of  a 
soliloquy,  which  increase  in  virulence  as  you 
flee  before  him,  and  which  produce  that 
peculiar  contortion  of  face  in  the  well-bred 
footman,  in  which  a  grin  battles  with  a 
countenance  of  stone. 

Those  awful  footmen!  I  do  believe  that 
a  cabby,  in  spite  of  his  bad  language,  is 
sometimes  the  prey  of  softer  em.otions.  One 
knows  by  observation  that  he  often  smokes 
a  pipe,  and  from  the  way  his  chariot  leans 
up  against  the  pavement  of  the  nearest 
saloon,  out  of  which  he  comes  with  a 
frightfully  red  face  and  smacking  his  hps, 
one  knows  he  is  not  a  '* bigoted"  total 
abstainer.  One  even  pictures  him  as  re- 
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T empor ary   Power 


tired  to  a  mews,  and  in  that  peaceful  retreat, 
with  the  family  washing  flapping  over  his 
head,  enjoying  respite  from  timid  fares  in 
the  bosom  of  his  family. 

There  is  a  monumental  prejudice  against 
four-wheelers.  It  is  even  growing.  Once 
I  used  to  frolic  about  in  them,  flitting  from 
one  afternoon  tea  to  the  other;  now  when  I 
ask  for  one  it  is,  if  possible,  secretly,  and 
always  apologetically.  Why  is  it  ?  They 
cost  nearly  the  same  as  hansoms,  but  why 
are  they  so  plebeian  ?  Even  a  'bus  is  not 
so  low.  Servants  respect  you  more  even  if 
they  know  that  you  get  into  a  'bus  out  of 
their  sight  than  if  they  witness  your  down- 
fall into  a  four-wheeler.  Kings  have  driven 
in  hansoms,  and  Cabinet  Ministers  have 
been  tipped  out  of  them;  but  who  ever  heard 
of  a  King  or  a  Cabinet  Minister  driving  in 
a  "growler"  ? 

Of  course,  a  'bus  is  low,  but  you  need  not 
say  you  came  in  one,  only  you  must  be  care- 
ful! The  other  day  old  Lady  Toppingham 
called  and  grew  quite  eloquent  on  the  level- 
ling influences  of  'buses;  they  might  do  for 
cooks  and  tradespeople,  she  said,  but  her 
principles  were  such  that  she  really  couldn't 
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The   Champagne  Standard 

ride  in  one.  All  the  time  she  was  clutching 
a  blue  punched  'bus  ticket  on  the  top  of  her 
card-case  with  her  relentless  thumb.  I 
agreed  with  her,  and  said  that  I  also  never 
could  nor  would,  and  no  sooner  had  she 
gone  than  I  was  off  to  Whiteley's  on  top 
of  a  blue  Kensington.  Still,  it  is  levelling, 
and  you  should  always  pick  off  the  straws 
and  never  cling  to  the  tickets. 

However,  the  most  ignoble  conveyance 
is  undoubtedly  the  ** growler."  To  go  in 
one  to  a  smart  afternoon  reception  requires 
courage.  I  shall  never  forget  my  last  experi- 
ence. It  was  an  awful  function,  and  both 
sides  of  the  street  were  lined  with  private 
carriages,  and  a  double  row  of  footmen 
graced  the  porte  cochere. 

My  four-wheeler  was  the  only  one  in  sight, 
and  it  was  the  forlornest  of  its  kind.  It 
shook  like  jelly  and  rattled  like  artillery. 
A  burly  being  in  sackcloth  and  dirt  (instead 
of  ashes)  rolled  off  the  box,  and  sixteen 
perfectly  equipped  footmen  had  their 
features  set  to  a  preparatory  grin.  I  placed 
my  foot  on  the  dirtiest  cab  step  in  London, 
and  from  my  white-gloved  hand  I  dropped 
a  liberal  fare  into  a  grimy  paw.  To  the 
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Temporary   Power 


joy  of  the  attendant  footmen  the  owner  of 
the  paw  said  the  most  appaUing  things.  I 
stopped  the  hurricane  with  another  shiUing, 
and  flew  up  the  steps  and  took  refuge  in 
extra  haughtiness,  and  overdid  it! 

I  was  thankful  when  I  was  ushered  into 
the  drawing-room  and  cooled  off  in  the  icy 
stare  of  the  other  guests  —  some  thirty 
women  and  two  men. 

Nothing  betrayed  that  I  was  a  "growler" 
lady  as  I  took  the  limp  hand  of  my  hostess, 
who  favoured  me  with  a  speechless  smile. 
This  she  temporarily  detached  from  a  su- 
perior man  in  superior  garments,  such  as, 
to  do  them  justice.  Englishmen  only  know 
how  to  wear.  He  was  very  perfect,  and 
in  one  of  his  blank  eyes  he  wore  a  glass. 

I  don't  know  his  name,  but  I  shall  never 
forget  him.  He  was  evidently  one  of  the 
lilies  of  the  field  who  only  know  of  four- 
wheelers  by  hearsay.  Whether  our  hostess 
stopped  smiling  long  enough  to  murmur 
an  introduction  I  do  not  know,  but  we  were 
quite  lost  among  the  furniture,  and  as  much 
thrown  on  each  other's  society  as  if  we  were 
on  a  desert  island.  So  when  he  uttered 
inquiringly  something  that  sounded  like 
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The   Champagne   Standard 

"yum,"  I  said  desperately,  knowing  it  could 
strike  no  answering  chord,  "I  came  in  a 
four-wheeler;  it  requires  a  good  deal  of 
moral  courage." 

Then  I  stopped,  blushing  and  embar- 
rassed. How  would  he  express  his  scorn! 
I  stepped  aside  to  give  him  a  chance  to 
vanish  out  of  my  plebeian  neighbourhood; 
but,  instead,  said  this  gallant  Englishman, 
bringing  his  eyeglass  to  bear  on  me,  "Ow 
—  ow  —  really  ?  So  did  I.  Never  drive 
in  anything  else."  Yes,  there  are  heroes 
even  in  London  drawing-rooms. 

Has  any  one  ever  heard  of  a  footman 
with  wife  and  children  ?  Can  that  cast- 
iron  countenance  ever  unbend  ?  Does  that 
vacant  look  hide  mighty  thoughts,  or  does 
it  hide  nothing  ?  Is  a  footman  himself  ever 
scorned  ?  I  do  hope  he  is,  for  he  has  made 
me  suffer  so  much.  I  have  sometimes 
thought  that  if  I  owned  a  footman  I  should 
be  too  proud  to  live;  yet  on  studying  the 
faces  of  my  fellow  men  so  blessed,  I  find 
that  they  are  not  proud,  but  quite  modest, 
and  sometimes  even  shabby. 

Yes,  the  owners  of  footmen  are  mostly 
less  prosperous  in  appearance  than  their 
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Temporary   Power 


servants,  while  the  possessor  of  a  butler 
and  footmen  galore  looks  quite  poor.  But 
I  do  wonder  where  footmen  go  when  they 
are  old  ?  I  never  saw  an  old  footman  but 
once,  and  that  was  in  a  registry  office,  a 
dim  sanctuary,  dotted  by  desks  and  orna- 
mented by  agitated  ladies. 

The  awful  temporary  power  of  registry 
office  clerks,  how  they  do  make  one  quail! 
There  was  about  the  old  footman  a  fictitious 
smartness,  a  youthfulness  so  out  of  keeping 
with  his  haggard  face  that  it  gave  me  a  shock. 
For  once  I  was  sorry  that  the  biter  was  bit, 
and  that  the  stony-hearted  clerk  behind 
his  desk  imparted  his  wisdom  with  such 
brevity  and  disdain. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  insinuating  wist- 
fulness  with  which  the  old  man  leaned 
across  the  desk,  and,  gracefully  using  his 
well-brushed  silk  hat  as  shield,  described 
how  bad  times  were,  and  that  he  would 
be  glad  to  take  any  place  at  all,  at  any 
wages;  all  he  wanted  was  a  home.  He 
would  even  go  into  the  country  —  even  in 
the  country!  It  was  too  pitiful,  and  my 
heart  ached  for  him  as  I  recognised  in  the 
shabby  smartness  of  his  well-fitting  clothes 

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one  who  had  "valeted'*  in  higher  spheres. 
By  the  way  he  held  his  top  hat  I  saw 
how  perfectly  he  had  studied  the  outside  of 
manners. 

The  cruelty  of  the  beefy  clerk  was  colos- 
sal. "We  can't  place  old  footmen,  nobody 
wants  'em."  He  spoke  like  a  machine. 
'*  But  I'll  take  your  name."  The  old  man 
tripped  out  with  a  pathetic  lightness  as  if 
to  prove  to  us  all  by  a  sample  how  active 
his  legs  still  were.  So  it  seems  that  even 
the  proudest  footman  should  not  be  too 
proud. 

I  am  not  so  afraid  of  butlers  as  I  am  of 
footmen.  I  have  never  met  with  an  affable 
footman,  but  I  have  known  one  or  two 
butlers  who  were  quite  fatherly.  With  one, 
in  particular,  I  always  long  to  shake  hands. 
I  admire  his  clothes  so  much.  Never  for 
an  instant  would  any  one  take  them  for  a 
gentleman's  evening  clothes.  The  magnifi- 
cent girth  of  his  ample  tail  coat  shadows  the 
most  respectable  of  black  trousers;  they 
pretend  to  no  higher  sphere,  but  are  per- 
fect for  the  state  of  society  in  which  they 
move.  A  rather  fine  head,  like  a  respect- 
able Roman  Emperor's  (if  such  a  person- 
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Temporary   Power 


age  ever  existed),  completes  an  impressive 
personality. 

I  don't  know  what  he  thinks  about  me, 
but  when  he  vouchsafes  me  something  that 
is  a  smile  and  yet  isn't  a  smile,  I  feel  grati- 
fied. I  always  thought  that  his  ancestors 
fought  for  my  friends'  ancestors  in  the  battle 
of  Agincourt,  but,  on  inquiry,  find  he  has 
been  with  them  six  months.  The  temporary 
owner  of  this  great  man  is  quite  modest. 

One  of  the  funniest  exhibitions  of  tem- 
porary power  I  once  observed  in  America 
—  in  a  church.  Two  of  us  had  gone  to  hear 
a  great  American  preacher,  and  we  had  been 
invited  to  sit  in  the  pew  of  a  friend,  in  a 
church  to  which  we  were  strangers.  We 
came  early,  and  waited  patiently  just  within 
the  church  door  to  be  shown  to  the  seat. 
Only  a  few  stragglers  had  arrived,  and  all 
were  waiting  humbly  for  that  important 
functionary  —  the  sexton. 

Now  the  American  sexton  —  the  verger  — 
is  a  very  mighty  man  indeed.  Parsons  come 
and  go,  but  the  sexton  stays  for  ever.  If  he 
is  not  very  tall  and  dignified  in  black  broad- 
cloth, he  is  generally  fat  and  fussy  in  the 
same.  He  picks  out  waiting  sinners  and 
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The   Champagne  Standard 

seats  them  according  to  his  boundless  ca- 
price. He  knows  just  the  kind  of  stray 
sinner  who  may  be  ushered  into  a  charitable 
pew,  and  he  knows  the  pews  that  decline  to 
receive  stray  sinners  under  any  consideration. 

It  is  curious  what  courage  it  takes  to 
penetrate  into  a  stiange  pew;  it  is  being  a 
kind  of  Sabbath  burglar.  Never  does  a 
right-minded  sexton  usher  an  out-at-elbow 
sinner  into  the  pew  of  the  rich  and  great. 
That  they  are  presumably  addressing  the 
same  Divine  Power  is  no  reason.  This 
explains  the  Roman  Catholic  hold  on  the 
people.  If  you  are  a  Roman  Catholic, 
you  enter  God's  house  and  pray  anywhere; 
but  if  you  are  a  Protestant,  what  shy  pauper 
would  dare  to  stray  into  an  expensive  pew 
for  a  communion  with  his  God  ? 

My  American  sexton  had,  in  the  mean- 
time, bustled  down  the  centre  aisle.  He 
looked  the  little  crowd  over  haughtily,  and 
he  refused  to  catch  my  wistful  eye  —  my 
companion  was  getting  very  tired.  At  last 
I  ventured,  "Would  you  kindly  show  us  to 

Judge 's  pew.?"   "Can't  now,  I'm  busy; 

my  young  men  will  come  presently,"  and 
he  darted  off. 

146 


Temporary   Power 


His  young  men  did  not  come,  and  I 
looked  vainly  about  for  succour,  for  the 
pews  were  filling  up.  Suddenly  the  great 
swing-door  at  the  entrance  opened,  and  in 
came  a  tall  commanding  figure,  a  man  of 
advanced  years,  whose  name  is  a  household 
word  in  the  land,  the  great  preacher  him- 
self. He  pulled  off  his  battered  slouch  hat, 
and  I  saw  his  kind,  keen  eyes  as  they  rested 
on  the  white  hair  and  tired  face  of  my  friend. 
"Why  are  you  waiting  here,  what  can  I  do 
for  you  ?"  he  asked. 

"We  are  waiting  to  be  shown  to  Judge 
's  pew,"  I  explained. 

"I  will  show  you,  come  with  me."  This 
he  did,  and  left  us  the  richer  by  the  kindliest 
smile  in  the  world. 

Different  countries,  different  exercise  of 
temporary  power.  The  English  railway 
guard  is  not  impressive  nor  much  in  evi- 
dence. The  American  railroad  conductor, 
on  the  other  hand,  is  a  great  man,  but  he 
exercises  his  power  genially,  and  in  the  inter- 
vals of  collecting  tickets  he  is  approachable. 
He  generally  takes  up  his  abiding  place  at 
the  end  of  one  of  the  "cars,"  and  puts  his 
legs  on  the  seat  opposite  and  talks  with  a 

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The   Champagne  Standard 

much  flattered  chosen  one.  He  sees  a  good 
deal  of  the  world,  not  being  shut  into  a 
cubby-hole  like  his  English  brother.  In  the 
course  of  years  of  travel  along  a  particular 
route  his  popularity  becomes  so  great  that 
it  culminates  in  gifts,  and  many  a  popular 
conductor  blazes  in  the  light  of  a  huge 
diamond  *' bosom  pin,"  or  carries  under  his 
arm  at  night  a  gorgeous  presentation  lan- 
tern. No  man  is  so  great  but  he  feels  flat- 
tered at  his  notice,  and  he  really  is  not  very 
proud,  considering,  and  his  power  is  benign. 
In  England  his  namesake,  the  'bus  con- 
ductor, has  often  made  me  feel  the  blight 
of  his  authority.  There  was  once  a  mis- 
anthrope who  took  to  keeping  a  light-house; 
if  I  were  a  misanthrope  I  would  become 
a  'bus  conductor.  It  must,  of  course,  be 
awfully  irritating,  that  temporary  support 
he  gives  to  beautiful  ladies  as  they  topple 
off^;  but  it  is  compensated  for,  to  some  ex- 
tent, by  wrenching  the  arms  of  the  lovely 
creatures  as  he  hauls  them  on  the  foot-board 
of  the  'bus  before  it  stops.  This,  they  say, 
he  does  out  of  pure  benevolence,  so  that  the 
poor 'bus  horses  shall  not  have  to  start  up  the 
cumbersome  machine  unnecessarily.  Still, 
148 


Temporary   Power 


one  ventures  to  ask  if  we  poor  women  are 
not  of  as  much  consequence  as  a  'bus 
horse  ? 

Last  year  a  benevolent  conductor  nearly 
dislocated  my  arm  as  he  pulled  me  up,  and 
I  ached  for  two  months  after.  I  protest 
against  this  misplaced  tenderness!  It  is 
said  that  an  Englishman  may  ill-treat  his 
wife  with  more  impunity  than  his  dog,  but 
I  don't  believe  it.  I  am  not  afraid  of  the 
conductor  unless  I  get  in  or  out  of  his  'bus; 
but  the  haul  he  gives  me  in,  which  sends  me 
reehng  against  the  other  passengers,  and 
the  pull  he  gives  me  out  when  I  recline  for  a 
moment,  without  any  gratitude,  against  his 
outstretched  arm,  makes  him  unpopular 
with  me. 

There  is  an  American  product  which,  with 
the  American  invasion,  has,  alas  and  alas! 
taken  root  here,  and  that  is  the  American 
hotel  clerk,  real  and  imitated.  He  has 
come  with  the  great  caravanserais,  and, 
like  the  American  plumber,  he  is  the  target 
for  American  wit. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  it  takes  a  cool 
and  composed  personality  to  "wrastle"  with 
the  traveUing  public,  and  yet  the  travelling 
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public  is  not  half  so  terrible  as  the  cool 
and  composed  hotel  clerk.  He  has  brought 
insolence  to  the  level  of  a  fine  art,  and  as 
he  is  answerable  only  to  a  corporation,  that 
means  that  he  is  answerable  to  no  one.  He 
always  puts  you  into  a  room  you  don't 
want,  and  having  no  pecuniary  interest  in 
the  matter,  it  is  to  him  of  no  earthly  con- 
sequence whether  you  stay  or  not. 

Complain  to  him,  and  you  complain  to 
deaf  ears.  He  apparently  has  nothing  to  do 
but  to  loll  behind  the  office  counter  and 
improve  his  finger-nails.  Tumultuous  rings 
of  various  bells  leave  him  unmoved;  pas- 
sionate telephonic  appeals  he  only  answers 
when  he  chooses.  He  turns  to  an  agonised 
public  a  face  like  carved  wax  and  eyes  like 
agate,  and  it  recoils.  The  parting  of  his 
hair  is  a  monument  to  his  industry. 

When  I  call  on  a  guest  at  a  big  hotel  I 
deliver  up  my  card  with  hope,  because,  as 
the  poet  rashly  sang,  "Hope  springs  eternal 
in  the  human  breast."  Then  I  sit  down 
and  wait  as  near  the  office  as  possible,  and 
wistfully  watch  the  elegant  leisure  of  the 
great  man  behind  the  counter.  My  card 
has  disappeared  in  the  custody  of  a  small 

150 


Temporary   Power 


boy  with  a  salver,  and  the  chances  are  that 
before  I  see  him  again  he  will  be  a  man 
grown. 

After  having  waited  half  an  hour  I  ven- 
ture to  intrude  on  the  peace  behind  the 
counter,  and  I  am  received  with  a  hauteur 
which  puts  me  in  my  right  place  at  once. 
The  guest,  being  merely  a  number,  excites  no 
earthly  interest,  but  the  clerk  wearily  sends 
another  infant  in  search  of  the  first,  and  then 
turns  his  immaculate  back  on  me,  and  I  am 
permitted  to  admire  the  shiny  smoothness  of 
his  back  hair.  I  again  subside,  and  in  my 
indignation  I  make  up  my  mind  to  complain 
to  the  daily  Press:  Is  thy  servant  a  door- 
mat that  he  should  be  so  downtrodden  ? 

Do  not  preach  about  the  ancient  tyrannies 
of  kings  and  emperors,  and  other  estimable 
folks,  about  whom  history  has  probably 
told  a  good  many  lies,  and  to  these  add  the 
further  lie  that  I  am  happy  because  I  am 
free  and  independent.  I  am  not  free  and 
independent!  Instead,  I  languish  under  the 
tyranny  of  a  hundred  thousand  tyrants, 
before  whom  I  grovel  and  quake.  Several 
of  them  sleep  on  my  top  floor  and  treat  me 
with  much  severity. 

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Instead  of  thousands  of  tyrants,  give  me, 
rather,  one  tyrant;  I  can  accommodate  ex- 
istence to  him,  and  it  is  distinctly  more 
interesting  and  less  complicated. 

The  problem  of  existence  is  its  multitude 
of  tyrants.  Indeed,  how  delightful  life 
would  be  if  we  were  not  so  tyrannised  over 
by  the  down-trodden! 


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The  Extravagant  Economy  of 
Women 


THE  trouble  with  women  is  that 
they  do  not  know  how  to  spend 
money.  The  great  majority  never 
have  any  money,  or  they  are  at  the 
mercy  of  some  grim  mascuHne  creature,  be 
he  father  or  husband,  who  demands  items — 
now  think  of  an  average  man  bothering 
himself  about  items!  It  must  be  a  sur- 
vival of  the  time  when  we  inhabited  harems, 
or  when  we  were  beautiful  dames  to  whom 
our  true  knights  gave  undying  love  but 
nothing  more  substantial;  or  we  rejoiced 
the  souls  of  the  ancient  patriarchs  though 
we  did  not  succeed  in  extracting  any  cash. 

I  don't  for  a  moment  beUeve  that  the 
lovely  Hebrew  damsel,  Rebecca,  had  a 
penny  of  her  own,  nor  that  the  peerless 
Guinevere  had  half-a~crown  (or  whatever 
the  coinage  was)  to  buy  her  Launcelot  a 
love  token.  And  though  Scheherazade  — 
that  peerless,  self-contained,  circulating 
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library  of  a  thousand  and  one  volumes  — 
told  enough  stories  to  her  Sultan  to  have 
made  the  fortune  of  a  modern  publisher, 
she  could  hardly  have  made  less  even  if  she 
had  had  the  felicity  to  write  a  modern 
novel.  The  favourite  of  the  harem  would, 
it  is  certain,  have  found  a  purse  a  hollow 
mockery. 

Now  we  modern  women  are  the  descend- 
ants, more  or  less  remote,  of  Rebecca, 
Guinevere,  and  Scheherazade,  and  our 
greatest  resemblance  to  our  fair  ancestresses 
is  that  most  of  us  have  no  money  to  spend, 
and  those  of  us  who  have  do  not  know  how 
to  spend  it.  Heredity  is  an  excuse  for  being 
what  might  be  called  the  stingy  sex. 

What  would  the  world  have  been  Hke 
had  the  purse-strings  of  time  been  held  by 
women  ?  More  comfortable,  possibly,  but, 
probably,  much  less  beautiful.  It  takes 
the  great,  splendid  masculine  spendthrifts  in 
high  places  to  glorify  the  world  with  treasures 
of  priceless  art.  But  it  was  an  immortal 
maiden  queen  who  inspired  the  greatest  poet 
of  all  time,  and  as  the  production  of  poetry 
has  always  been  cheap,  so  poetry  was  the 
splendid  and  inexpensive  contribution  to 
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Extravagant  Economy   of  Women 

the  glory  of  her  reign  made  by  a  not  too 
extravagant  queen.  It  is  the  men  who  keep 
aUve  the  extravagance,  the  beauty,  and  the 
ideahty  of  Hfe.  But  Httle  credit  to  them 
who  have  always  been  able  to  put  their 
hands  in  their  trousers  pockets  and  jingle 
the  pennies. 

Now  time  may  mean  money  for  men,  but 
who  ever  heard  that  time  meant  money  for 
women  ?  No  one,  for  the  simple  reason  that 
it  does  not.  Time  and  trouble  are  of  so 
little  value  to  the  average  woman  that  she 
squanders  the  one  and  is  prodigal  of  the 
other  in  the  most  appalling  way.  And  by 
the  average  woman,  are  meant  all  such  who 
do  not  earn  their  own  living,  no  matter  how 
modestly;  nor  those  who  have  some  serious 
purpose  in  life,  though  without  the  object 
of  earning;  nor  those  who,  as  wives  and 
mothers,  may  estimate  their  time  as  of  the 
value  of  a  general  servant's.  But  apart 
from  these  the  rank  and  file  of  women, 
consist  of  the  aimless  ones  —  and  there  are 
all  sorts  of  aimless  ones:  rich  and  poor,  high 
and  low, — who  potter  vaguely  through  life, 
through  shops,  through  streets,  through  joy, 
through  sorrow;   think  feebly,  talk  feebly, 

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and  feel  feebly,  and  finally  fade  away,  and 
cease  to  exist.  Now  think  of  the  majority 
of  men  frittering  away  life  Uke  that! 

For  ten  years  I  lived  opposite  an  able- 
bodied,  middle-aged  woman  who  sat  in  a 
rocking-chair  by  the  window,  crocheting 
from  luncheon  time  until  dark,  four  mortal 
hours,  and  this  for  ten  long  years!  Then 
she  moved  or  died,  I  don't  remember  which. 
And  yet,  after  all,  how  many  of  us  sit  with 
our  hands  folded,  doing  nothing,  thinking 
nothing,  but  just  mentally  and  physically 
limp,  weighed  down  by  empty,  useless  time, 
which  we  try  to  kill  with  yawning  despera- 
tion. 

We  are  adepts  of  the  idle  industries 
because  our  time  is  of  no  earthly  conse- 
quence. Think  of  the  miles  of  lace  we 
crochet,  the  impossible  embroideries  we 
make,  the  countless  odds  and  ends  we  con- 
struct, of  no  earthly  use  except  to  catch 
dust.  Think  of  the  hours  we  waste  at  the 
piano  which  no  one  wants  to  hear  and 
which  we  never  learn  to  play;  think  of  the 
awful  pictures  we  make,  which  no  one 
wants  to  see;  the  innumerable  things  we  do 
that  are  so  much  better  done  by  some  one 
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Extravagant  Economy   of  Women 

else.  There  may  be  male  loafers,  super- 
abundant male  loafers,  but  it  seems  to  me  as 
if  their  united  numbers  are  as  nothing  com- 
pared to  those  worthy  lady  loafers  who  are 
perfectly  respectable  and  perfectly  idle. 
Why  should  a  woman  be  permitted  to  loaf 
unreproved  ?  Is  idleness  a  feminine  privi- 
lege ? 

The  average  man  is  trained  to  do  some 
one  thing  as  well  as  his  intelligence  and  his 
industry  will  permit,  but  the  average  woman 
is  trained  to  do  nothing,  at  least  nothing 
well  —  she  cannot  even  keep  house  well. 
Her  only  object  is  to  fill  her  aimless  exist- 
ence with  something,  anything,  just  to  kill 
time. 

In  other  days  girls  were  carefully  taught 
all  domestic  employments;  they  had  to  learn 
to  keep  house,  to  sew  delicately,  to  cook,  and, 
indeed,  to  do  all  those  innumerable  minor 
things  which  are  of  such  vast  importance. 
The  modern  girl  is  only  taught  not  to  be 
illiterate,  that  is  all.  With  this  negative 
quality  as  a  dowry,  a  pretty  face  and  nice 
clothes,  and  some  empty  chatter,  she  is  be- 
stowed on  a  perfectly  innocent  young  man 
in  search  of  a  helpmate. 

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Perhaps  for  the  first  time  she  has  a  httle 
money  —  I  speak,  of  course,  of  the  respect- 
able middle-class  woman,  for  the  lowest  and 
highest  are  of  no  account,  meeting,  as  they 
often  do,  on  the  dead  level  of  extravagance. 
Now  what  can  we  expect  of  a  young  middle- 
class  wife  who  has  some  money  for  the  first 
time  ?  That  she  wastes  it  when  it  should 
be  saved,  and  saves  it  when  it  should  be 
spent.  She  buys  cheap  food,  but  she  deco- 
rates her  baby  with  that  white  phish  cloak 
and  that  awful  plush  cap  which  her  middle- 
class  soul  loves,  and  which  bear  witness  to 
her  prosperity.  So  her  olive  branch  is 
carried  about  in  plush  while  her  husband 
has  dismal  retrospects  of  other  days,  hardly 
appreciated,  when  he  took  his  luscious 
supper  at  a  third-rate  restaurant,  which 
in  remembrance  seems  a  banquet  fit  for 
the  gods. 

To  spend  money  in  just  proportion  to 
one's  income,  however  small,  and  not  to 
spend  too  little  — for  there  is  such  a  thing! 
—  requires  a  higher  degree  of  intelligence 
than  the  aimless  and  the  inexperienced  pos- 
sess, and  the  woman  who  earns  money  has  a 
keener,  juster  knowledge  of  its  value  than 
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Extravagant   Economy   of  Women 

the  woman  who  gets  it  from  the  mascuHne 
head  of  the  family  under  whose  thumb  she 
languishes.  Also,  as  I  have  said  before, 
she  has  to  learn  the  value  of  time  in  the 
process  of  evolution  from  the  harem  to  the 
ballot-box. 

I  have  a  dear  friend,  a  woman  with  a 
massive  intellect,  who  is,  however,  not  above 
economy.  She  has  been  in  search  of  an 
ideal  greengrocer,  and,  after  much  tribula- 
tion of  spirit  and  waste  of  precious  hours 
that  mean  literally  pounds  to  her,  she  found 
him  in  Shepherd's  Bush.  Lured  by  the 
bucolic  name,  tempted  by  a  vision  of  sprouts 
at  "tuppence"  per  pound  instead  of  "tup- 
pence ha'penny,"  she  made  a  pilgrimage 
there,  wasted  a  whole  precious  morning,  and 
joined  a  phalanx  of  other  mistaken  female 
economists  who  stood  on  wet  flags  in  Indian 
file,  each  waiting  her  turn  to  be  served. 
My  intelligent  friend  waited  twenty-five 
minutes,  until  she  was  finally  rescued  by  a 
serving  young  man,  and  had  the  rapture  of 
saving  sevenpence. 

She,  naturally,  returned  home  in  triumph 
and  in  a  'bus,  but  she  was  so  used  up  by 
her  economy  that  it  would  have  been  flattery 
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to  call  her  a  wreck.  That  night  she  had  a 
chill,  the  doctor  was  summoned  in  hot  haste, 
and  he  proceeded  to  attend  her  with  that 
assiduity  which  only  adds  another  terror  to 
illness.  When  to  this  is  added  the  bills  for 
a  protracted  visit  to  the  seaside,  my  intelli- 
gent friend  confessed  that  it  hardly  paid  to 
save  sevenpence. 

Now  is  it  not  also  the  extravagance  of 
pure  economy  that  takes  women  to  the 
"sales,"  where  they  buy  all  the  things  they 
do  not  want  ?  Would  there  be  sales-days  if 
there  were  only  men  in  the  world  ?  Did  you 
ever  see  a  man  go  from  one  shop  to  an- 
other to  get  a  necktie  "tuppence"  cheaper? 
To  be  penny  wise  is  indeed  the  supreme 
attribute  of  women!  For  the  economical 
one  it  is  a  terrible  ordeal  to  go  shopping 
with  a  father  or  a  brother;  a  lover  is  differ- 
ent, he  is  still  full  of  temporary  patience. 
But  husbands  and  fathers  have  no  patience. 

"If  you  like  it,  take  it,  but  don't  waste 
people's  time,"  says  the  irate  man,  as  if  there 
weren't  innumerable  steps  to  be  taken  after 
the  initial  process  of  liking. 

"I  think  I  can  get  it  a  little  nicer  at 
Smith's,"  you  urge,  while  your  dear  one 
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Extravagant  Economy   of  Women 


looks  at  you  cynically,  for  nicer  means 
cheaper,  and  he  knows  it.  *'  Come  on  then," 
and  he  bundles  you  into  a  cab,  drives  to 
Smith's,  and  lets  the  cab  wait  while  you 
try  to  make  up  your  mind.  Those  dread- 
ful cabs,  how  they  do  make  the  economical 
woman  suffer.  Did  you  ever  hear  a  woman 
declare  that  it  is  really  cheaper  in  the  end 
to  take  a  cab  ?  When  does  a  woman  ever 
think  of  the  end  ?  The  average  woman 
avoids  a  cab  on  principle.  She  feels  it  due 
to  this  same  principle  to  draggle  her  skirts 
through  the  mud,  to  get  her  feet  wet,  and  to 
come  home  an  "object."  But  thank  good- 
ness, she  has  saved  a  cab  fare,  and  you  can 
get  twelve  quinine  pills  for  tuppence. 

Is  it  not  also  a  part  of  our  extravagant 
economy  that  makes  women  eat  such  queer 
things  when  they  are  by  their  lonely  selves  ? 
What  self-respecting  man  would  lunch  off 
a  sultana  cake,  a  tart,  or  an  ice  ?  Show 
me  the  self-respecting  woman  who  has 
not  done  it!  Women  know  how  to  cook 
—  some  of  them  —  but  none  of  them  know 
how  to  eat.  A  woman  feels  that  to  eat  well 
and  substantially  is  a  sheer  waste;  there 
is  nothing  to  show  for  it,  but  she  would 
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The   Champagne   Standard 

not  hesitate  a  moment  to  spend  even  more 
in  something  that  she  can  show.  A  man 
doesn't  think  twice  about  having  a  ''rip- 
ping "  good  dinner  and  a  bottle  of  extra  good 
wine;  he  thinks  it  is  money  well  spent,  but 
he  will  be  hanged  before  he  would  buy 
himself  an  ornamental  waistcoat  and  sus- 
tain life  on  a  penny  bun. 

What  awful  things  we  should  eat  if  it 
were  not  for  men!  I  am  sure  table  d'hote 
dinners  were  invented  by  some  philan- 
thropist to  save  women.  *'I  cannot  eat  a 
la  cartel'  said  a  friend  of  mine  in  a  piteous 
burst  of  confidence:  "its  just  like  eating 
money."  So  when  her  husband  travels 
with  her  he  always  leads  \i^xXo\httahle  d' hbte 
if  only  to  preserve  her  from  starvation. 
When  she  is  resigned  to  the  cost,  she  has  an 
excellent  appetite.  I  really  think  if  it  were 
not  for  men  women  would  wrap  themselves 
in  sable  and  point  lace  and  starve  to  death. 

Is  it  not  the  woman  who  is  the  apostle  of 
appearances  ?  Go  to  a  dinner  party  where 
the  wines  and  the  food  are  rather  poor  and 
well  served,  and  you  may  be  sure  it  is  the 
fault  of  the  dear  female  economist  at  the 
head  of  the  table. 

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Extravagant  Economy   of  Women 

Who  of  us  has  not  come  across  a  gorgeous 
establishment  where  it  takes  three  footmen 
and  a  butler  to  serve  a  tough  chop  of  New 
Zealand  lamb.  The  presiding  goddess  after- 
wards drives  out  in  the  park  in  an  equipage 
magnificent  with  coachman  and  footman, 
and  horses  shining  like  satin  with  care  and 
good  feeding.  No,  they  are  not  fed  on  New 
Zealand  lamb! 

For  some  people  it  is  a  wildly  extrava- 
gant economy  to  ride  in  a  'bus.  I  know  of 
a  family  of  girls  who  pine  for  a  'bus  ride  as 
we  poor  things  do  for  a  chariot  and  four. 
They  can't  afford  it;  it  would  ruin  the 
family  credit,  which  is  only  kept  up  by  a 
magnificent  carriage  —  unpaid  for  —  and 
a  superb  coachman  and  footman  whose 
wages  are  owing.  If  one  of  these  girls  were 
to  be  seen  in  a  'bus,  it  would  mean  their 
downfall  in  the  eyes  of  the  confiding  trades- 
men. No,  not  everybody  can  afford  to  ride 
in  a  'bus.  After  all  it  is  only  the  rich  and 
great  the  world  permits  to  be  shabby. 

I  heard  of  a  nice  girl  who  ''slums"  and 

who  lives  in  the  East  End,  having  shaken 

the  dust  of  Mayfair  from  her  feet.     She  has 

reduced  self-sacrifice  to  a  science,  and  her 

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life  is  an  orgie  of  self-denial,  and  she  is  a 
hollow-eyed,  haggard  young  martyr,  and 
keeps  body  and  soul  together  on  five  shillings 
a  week.  My  only  criticism  of  this  scheme 
of  altruism  is  that  every  once  in  a  while  she 
neglects  and  starves  herself  into  an  awful 
fit  of  illness,  and  has  to  be  taken  back  to 
Mayfair  and  brought  to  life,  and  then  the 
good  physician  sends  a  thumping  big  bill  to 
her  parents,  who  never  get  any  credit  for 
charity.  Now  I  think  even  a  modern 
martyr  ought  to  have  just  a  grain  of  com- 
mon sense. 

There  is  a  certain  intellectual  town  in 
America  where  tramcars  still  issue  return 
tickets  at  reduced  rates.  How  well  I  re- 
member two  dear  maiden  ladies,  armed  with 
principles,  walking  up  and  down  in  the  snow 
and  sleet  of  a  winter's  night  one  whole  hour 
waiting  for  the  particular  tram  which  would 
accept  their  tickets.  They  let  unnumbered 
other  trams  jingle  merrily  past,  while  they 
paddled  about  in  the  slush,  strong  in  their 
sense  of  economy.  They  each  saved  three 
cents,  and  one  nearly  died  of  pneumonia. 

One  wonders  how  many  of  us  die  because 
of  our  reckless  economy .?     Are  we  not  for 
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Extravagant  Economy   of  Women 

ever  doing  things  for  which  we  have  neither 
the  strength  nor  the  capacity,  just  to  save 
a  few  pennies,  and  do  not  many  of  us  repent 
all  our  life  long  ?  I  well  remember  a  lady 
who  to  save  hiring  a  man,  lifted  her  piano 
to  slip  a  rug  under.  When  I  saw  her,  she 
had,  in  consequence,  been  a  helpless  in- 
valid for  years  with  an  incurable  spine 
complaint. 

Are  not  cheap  servants  another  favourite 
female  economy  ?  I  have  seen  a  sensible 
woman  rejoice  because  she  had  captured  a 
cheap  servant  as  if,  what  with  aggravation 
of  spirits  and  broken  crockery,  a  cheap  ser- 
vant does  not  take  it  out  of  one  in  nervous 
prostration.  Not  to  mention  that  the  in- 
competent eat  just  as  much  as  the  com- 
petent! 

Did  I  not  read  this  very  day  how  two 
delightful  female  economists,  waiting  for 
the  opening  of  a  certain  theatre,  sat  on 
camp-stools  from  nine  in  the  morning  till 
seven  in  the  evening  of  a  cold,  damp  winter 
day  for  a  chance  to  dive  into  the  pit,  and  so 
to  save  a  shilling  or  two.  Was  there  ever  a 
more  cheering  example  of  feminine  wis- 
dom and  thrift  ? 

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I  knew  a  woman  who  had  the  economical 
fad  to  get  double  service  out  of  a  match,  but 
she  found  it  awfully  expensive.  She  went 
upstairs  one  night  to  dress  for  dinner.  A 
doorway,  hung  with  a  frail,  floppy  art- 
curtain,  connected  her  bedroom  and  her 
dressing-room.  As  she  entered,  she  heard 
shrieks  of  "fire"  in  the  street,  and  tearing 
open  the  window  she  found  the  house 
opposite  in  flames,  and  in  an  instant  fire- 
engines  came  clattering  through  the  crowd. 
She  was  a  kind  soul,  but  she  did  enjoy  herself 
immensely,  watching  it  comfortably  from 
her  window.  It  was  over  in  no  time,  and 
as  she  looked  at  the  chaos  of  fire-engines 
and  firemen  the  thought  struck  her  how 
convenient  it  would  be  if  there  were  another 
fire  just  then  in  the  street,  for  here  they  all 
were  ready  to  put  it  out! 

Whereupon  she  lighted  the  gas,  and,  true 
to  her  principles,  carried  the  burning  match 
to  her  dressing-room,  through  the  floppy 
art-curtain.  The  next  instant  it  was  all  in 
a  blaze,  and  she  was  hanging  out  of  the 
window  shrieking  "  fire."  They  broke  down 
her  front  door,  trailed  miles  of  dirty  oozing 
hose  upstairs,  and  finally  left  her  gazing 
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Extravagant  Economy   of  Women 

drearily  at  the  black  ceiling,  the  sodden 
furniture,  the  dirty  water  pouring  down- 
stairs, and  a  hideous  burnt  wall  where  the 
fatal  art-curtain  had  been. 

"At  any  rate,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she 
took  a  great,  long  breath,  "it  was  con- 
venient." 

But  since  then  she  has  never  used  a  match 
twice. 

How  we  all  do  love  to  save  at  the  spiggot 
even  if  it  does  pour  out  at  the  bung-hole! 
Who  of  us  has  not  seen  a  woman  grow  thin 
and  sharp  and  old,  in  the  struggle  to  save 
pennies  while  her  open-handed  husband 
throws  away  pounds  ?  It  takes  a  big,  broad 
minded  woman  to  know  when  to  open  her 
purse-strings,  and  perhaps  even  a  bigger 
and  more  strong-minded  one  to  keep  them 
always  comfortably  ajar. 

At  what  early  age  can  the  girl-child  be 
taught  that  what  is  too  cheap  is  usually  very 
dear  ?  The  majority  of  women  never  learn 
it.  How  many  a  woman  goes  out  to  buy  a 
warm  woollen  frock  and  returns  home  with 
a  be-chiffoned  tissue-paper  silk,  because  it 
was  cheap  and  looked  so  "smart."  That 
ghastly,  temporary  smartness  which  is  a 
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kind  of  whited  sepulchre!  There  is  no 
doubt  that  the  Englishwomen  —  and  I  in- 
clude the  Americans — are  the  most  extrava- 
gant in  the  world. 

A  Frenchwoman  once  expressed  her 
amazement  to  me  at  the  enormous  amount 
of  money  Englishwomen  spend  on  what  is 
as  useless  as  froth.  Chiffon  is  the  bane  of 
the  Englishwoman;  she  drapes  herself  in 
cheap  chiffons  while  a  Frenchwoman  puts 
her  money  in  a  bit  of  good  lace.  She 
adorns  herself  with  poor  furs  where  a 
Frenchwoman  would  buy  herself  a  little 
thing,  but  a  good  Httle  thing.  Finally, 
when  the  thrifty  Frenchwoman  has  gathered 
together  quite  a  nice  collection  of  lace  and 
fur,  the  Englishwoman  has  nothing  to  show 
for  her  money  but  a  mass  of  torn  and  dirty 
chiffon  whose  destination  is  the  rag-bag. 
After  all  it  is  an  age  of  wax  beads  and 
imitation  lace,  and  they  represent  as  well 
as  anything  our  extravagant  economy. 

Is  not  our  middle-class  cooking  a  monu- 
ment to  our  extravagance  ?  A  British  house- 
wife has  it  in  her  power  to  take  away  the 
stoutest  appetite  with  her  respectable  joint, 
her  watery  vegetable,  and  the  pudding  or 
i68 


E  xtrava gant  Economy   of  Women 

tart  that  should  He  as  heavy  on  her  con- 
science as  they  do  on  the  stomach.  If  the 
EngUshwoman  would  only  take  to  the 
chiffons  of  cooking  instead  of  the  chiffons  of 
clothes!  It  is  an  extravagance  to  cook  badly; 
it  is  an  extravagance  to  buy  things  because 
they  are  cheap;  it  is  an  extravagance  to 
waste  time  in  doing  what  someone  else  can 
do  better  (if  one  can  afford  it).  After  all  it 
is  only  fair  to  employ  others  when  one  has 
the  means.  Don't  we  all  want  to  live  ? 
Suppose  editors  wrote  the  whole  contents  of 
their  papers,  and  publishers  only  published 
their  own  immortal  works!    What  then  ? 

The  other  day  I  had  to  buy  some  china 
to  replace  what  had  been  broken.  *'They 
break  it  so  quickly,"  I  said  to  the  poUte 
salesman,  in  a  burst  of  grief.  "But  if  they 
didn't,  what  should  we  do?"  he  asked.  It 
really  had  not  occurred  to  me  before,  so  a 
polite  salesman  taught  me  a  lesson. 

It  belongs  to  the  economy  of  the  universe 
that  neither  we  nor  anything  else  should 
last  for  ever.  Nature  herself  is  methodically 
economical,  witness  the  regular  passing  of 
the  seasons.  And  does  she  not  utihse  one 
in  the  making  of  the  next  ? 
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Yes,  what  we  women  need  most  of  all  is 
to  be  taught  unextravagant  economy,  which 
includes  the  value  both  of  money  and  of 
time,  for  the  day  is  coming  when  women's 
time  will  really  be  worth  something.  Prob- 
ably it  will  work  a  political  economical  revo- 
lution, but  that  cannot  be  helped,  and,  after 
all,  the  world's  progress  is  punctuated  by 
revolutions.  If  women  enter  men's  sphere, 
the  men  will  have  to  do  something  else. 
Still,  women  are  barred  by  their  very  weak- 
ness from  innumerable  employments,  and 
though  they  demand  to  vote,  one  never 
hears  a  very  enthusiastic  plea  on  their  part 
to  fight. 

So  let  women  earn,  or  at  all  events  let 
them  be  given  money  as  a  right  and  not 
as  a  begrudged  charity,  and  it  will  be 
cheaper  for  men  in  the  end,  with  the  result 
that  our  economy  will  become  less  irre- 
sponsibly extravagant.  Possibly  we  will 
not  save  much,  but  we  may  live  better,  and, 
joyof  joys,  the  doctors'  bills  will  undoubtedly 
grow  beautifully  less,  for  I  am  sure  that  the 
immense  prosperity  of  that  learned  and 
disinterested  profession  is  mainly  due  to 
our  extravagant  economy. 
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A  Modern  Tendency 


WHERE  are  the  aged  gone  ? 
At  any  rate  the  aged  women  ? 
The  fact  is,  there  are  no  aged 
women;  for,  behold!  the  hair- 
dresser, the  milHner  and  the  dressmaker 
have  all  decreed  that  there  shall  be  no  old 
age  —  and,  lo!  the  miracle  is  performed; 
and  our  venerable  grandmothers  who  once 
were  old  are  now  only  strenuous  copies, 
perhaps  a  trifle  overdone,  of  our  more  or 
less  youthful  selves. 

Who  has  not  been  told  that  she  looks 
most  lovely  in  a  hat  in  which  her  last  grain 
of  common  sense  must  clamour  aloud  that 
she  really  looks  like  a  fright  ?  Have  not 
each  of  us,  my  sufi^ering  sisters,  had  relays 
of  awful  hats  tried  on  our  unoff^ending  heads 
till  we  look  like  tortured  ghosts,  crowned 
by  a  wreath  of  roses  or  cabbages,  and 
loomed  over  by  a  terrible  young  person  in 
black  satin  ?  How  that  young  person  — 
well  —  prevaricated,  and  how  the  cold  irony 
of  her  eye  cut  us  to  the  quick! 
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The   Champagne   Stand ard 

I  am  dreadfully  afraid  to  say  so,  but 
there  are  no  serving  young  ladies  who  are 
so  cruel  as  the  milliners'  young  ladies. 
They  are  of  course  not  all  perfectly  beau- 
tiful, but  their  wonderful  tresses  are  always 
built  up  in  such  an  artful  way  that  they 
never  fail  to  nestle  in  the  nooks  and  crevices 
of  the  most  unearthly  creations.  But  they 
always  say  "It  just  suits  Madam,"  even 
when  they  cannot  possibly  reconcile  it  to 
their  conscience! 

One  asks  why  do  all  the  big  shops  em- 
ploy, for  the  destruction  of  the  pubHc, 
those  tall  sylph-like  creatures  who  float 
about  like  denizens  of  a  higher  sphere,  in 
their  wonderful  black  satins.  These  satin 
robes  have  such  an  air  that  the  white  pins 
which  occasionally  hold  together  a  rip  look 
only  like  an  eccentric  ornament.  The  divine 
lengths  of  those  graceful  figures! 

They  are  a  serious  unbending  race  to 
whom  all  things  are  becoming.  So  when 
they  trail  up  and  down  what  may  be  termed 
the  trial  halls  of  fashion  to  show  off  to  a 
short,  stout  customer  a  garment  to  which  she 
mistakenly  aspires,  no  wonder  that,  struck 
by  a  temporary  insanity,  she  succumbs.  She 
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A   Modern    Tendency 


is  convinced  that  her  five  feet  by  an  equal 
breadth  will  look  like  a  five-foot  ten  inches, 
which  is,  besides,  so  attenuated  that  it  is  a 
problem  how  the  young  person  can  dis- 
pose of  anything  even  so  ethereal  as  a 
penny  bun.  Why  not  be  merciful  and  em- 
ploy a  dumpy  lot  for  dumpy  customers! 

It  is  a  terrible  thing  in  these  days  that 
there  is  no  growing  old.  No  happy  time 
comes  when  the  tired  features  are  at  hberty 
to  sink  into  comfortable  wrinkles,  and  no- 
body cares.  The  supreme  joy  of  taking 
one's  well-earned  rest  saying,  ''Behold,  I 
am  old!  Age  also  has  its  beauties  and  com- 
pensations." The  trouble  is  that  nobody 
really  believes  it  to  be  a  joy. 

There  is  probably  no  parting  so  painful 
as  the  parting  from  the  days  of  one's  youth; 
even  if  the  outside  be  ever  so  youthful  there 
is  a  knell  in  one's  heart  that  tolls  to  the 
burial.  One  of  the  surest  signs  of  age  is 
when  one  begins  to  think  of  the  past. 
Youth  dreams  of  the  future,  middle  age 
lives  in  the  present,  but  old  age  dreams 
of  the  past.  But  whoever  acknowledges 
dreaming  of  the  past  now  that  old  age  is 
out  of  fashion! 

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Years  and  years  ago,  when  our  mothers 
were  very  young,  there  was  a  distinct  fashion 
for  elderly  people;  certain  colours  were  sa- 
cred to  them,  certain  fashions,  certain  fab- 
rics and  certain  jewels.  What  young  creature 
would  have  foolishly  decked  herself  in 
either  purple  or  yellow  ?  Youth  rejoicing 
in  sparkling  eyes,  resigned  diamonds  to  its 
elders,  and  all  aglow  with  hope  and  illu- 
sions left  point  lace  to  deck  the  stately 
shoulders  of  age  along  with  velvet. 

Now  fashion  is  a  republic  and  the  only 
arbiter  is  a  bank  balance  or  credit,  and 
young  things  frisk  it  in  diamonds,  velvet, 
point  lace  and  sables,  and  their  old  grand- 
mothers shiver  along  in  mousseline  de  sole 
and  chiffon,  roses  wreathe  their  golden 
locks,  red  locks,  black  locks,  as  the  case 
may  be,  but  never  their  grey  locks,  and  the 
winds  of  heaven  fan  their  ageing  shoulder- 
blades.  The  art  of  growing  old  gracefully 
is  so  rare  that  no  wonder  we  cling  to  the 
hairdresser  and  the  dressmaker  with  pa- 
thetic hands,  just  to  postpone  the  evil  hour; 
sometimes  we  think  we  have  escaped  the 
evil  hour  altogether.  How  we  do  cheat 
ourselves! 

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A   Modern    Tendency 


It  is  perhaps  one  of  the  most  blessed  dis- 
pensations of  our  frail  human  nature  that 
we  do  not  really  know  how  we  look;  that 
when  we  gaze  into  a  mirror  we  do  not  see 
the  sober  disillusioning  reflection,  but  rather 
some  fondly  imagined  image  of  ourselves. 
No  woman  is  heroic  enough  to  look  her 
imperfections  squarely  in  the  face,  or  why 
do  we  see  such  curious  apparitions  ?  Why 
does  that  worn  old  face  hide  behind  that 
white  veil  dotted  with  black  ?  Because, 
when  she  sees  her  mistaken  old  features 
in  the  glass,  then  she  sees  what  she  longs  to 
see,  and  when  her  old  heart  cannot  pump 
up  sufficient  pink  she  dabs  on  that  ghastly 
rose  which  has  never  yet  deceived  anyone. 

Ah,  yes,  the  twentieth  century  is  distinctly 
reserved  for  youth  —  old  age  is  not  in  it! 
It  is  a  bad  fashion  set  by  that  spoilt  child 
of  the  world  —  America.  The  world  pays 
the  same  deference  to  America  that  the 
average  American  parent  pays  to  his  ob- 
streperous child.  Yes,  the  American  child 
rules  the  roost,  and  America  rules  the  world; 
therefore,  what  wonder  that  age  grows 
more  and  more  unpopular. 

The  other  day  I  saw  in  several  papers 

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that  in  a  certain  industry  no  workman  would 
be  employed  in  future  who  was  more  than 
forty.  Put  yourself  in  the  place  of  a  man 
of  forty  who  is  shelved  and  knows  of  no 
other  way  of  earning  his  living!  If  he 
becomes  a  criminal,  who  can  blame  him  ? 
Recently  I  read  a  curious  paragraph  about 
the  increasing  use  of  hair-dye  among  work- 
ing men.  Not  beer  and  tobacco,  mind  you, 
but  just  hair-dye!  Why?  Because  em- 
ployers do  not  want  old  workmen.  So  the 
men  ward  off  the  crime  of  growing  old  with 
hair-dye.  Was  there  ever  a  more  comic 
tragedy } 

Alas!  the  world  clamours  for  youth. 
White  hairs  compel  no  reverence.  Age 
only  suggests  to  brisk  young  things  that 
the  old  people  are  not  up  with  the  times. 
What  wonder,  then,  that  the  world  caters 
for  youth,  and  nobody  takes  the  trouble 
any  more  to  create  fashions  for  old  ladies  ? 

If  there  is  an  institution  which  more 
than  others  wards  off  the  coming  of  age,  it 
is  certainly  the  great  shops.  Twice  a  year 
these  arbiters  of  fashion  sacrifice  them- 
selves for  the  good  of  the  public.  Then 
do  they  guilelessly  re-mark  the  treasures 
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A   Modern    Tendency 


of  their  warehouses  with  those  tempting 
signs  which  produce  on  the  British  pubHc 
the  effect  of  hasheesh  on  the  native  of  India. 
Beware  of  those  peaceful  and  alluring  pirates 
of  Oxford  and  Regent  Streets,  O  frail 
women  who  draggle  last  year's  chiffons  in 
this  year's  mud,  and  go  to  the  greengrocers 
in  the  shop-worn  glory  of  the  year  before 
last.  During  sale-days  the  British  matron 
lives  in  a  state  of  ecstasy.  To  buy  is  bliss; 
to  buy  cheap  is  rapture.  Cotton  laces 
intoxicate  her,  and  so  does  chiffon.  She 
buys  summer  dresses  in  winter,  and  furs 
when  the  July  sun  bakes  the  sweltering  town. 
That  nothing  is  of  any  earthly  use  is  of  no 
consequence.  Nor  is  it  of  consequence 
that  what  she  buys  is  youthful,  and  she  is 
old.  It  is  these  enchanting  sale-days  that 
explain  the  Englishwoman's  orgies  of  wax 
beads,  picture  hats,  party  frocks  at  the 
wrong  time,  paper-soled  slippers  and  open- 
worked  stockings  in  pouring  rain. 

"A  strong  race,  these  English,"  an  envi- 
ous American  said  to  me  the  other  day. 

"That's  because  they  kill  the  weak  ones 
off,"  I  explained.     *'To  be  a  perfect  Eng- 
lishwoman you   must  be  able  to  sit  with 
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your  poor  bare  shoulders  against  an  open 
window  at  a  winter  dinner-party,  preferably 
in  an  icy  draught,  and  you  must  smile.  If 
you  can  survive  that  you  are  one  of  the 
elect.  It  ensures  you  a  social  position, 
because  you  cannot  have  a  social  position 
in  England  if  you  cover  up  your  shoulders." 

I  wish  I  could  offer  up  an  earnest  plea 
for  covered  shoulders,  at  least  for  the  aged! 
It  seems  to  me  when  a  brave  woman  has 
imperilled  her  life  for  forty  years,  nobly 
defying  the  cold  blasts  on  the  wrong  side  of 
the  dining-table,  and  after  she  has  got  her 
young  brood  safely  married,  it  does  seem  as 
if  she  then  might  retire  to  the  well-earned 
comfort  of  a  high  dress  without  losing  her 
position  in  society.  But  to  cover  up  those 
poor  melancholy  shoulders  is  to  announce 
the  oldest  kind  of  old  age,  and  what  woman 
has  the  courage  for  that  ? 

There  is  no  doubt  that  old  age  first  went 
out  of  fashion  when  the  bicycle  came  in,  for 
age  was  no  barrier  to  its  keen  enjoyment. 
But  grandmother  could  not  bicycle  in  a  cap, 
and  so  she  put  on  a  billycock  hat  instead; 
necessity  obliged  her  to  show  her  ankles, 
and  exhilaration  led  her  to  "scorch."  It 
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A   Modern    Tendency 

was  then  we  asked  in  some  perplexity 
for  the  first  time,  ''Where  have  the  aged 
gone  r 

Still  let  us  cling  to  youth,  it  is  our  modern 
prerogative  as  women;  but  only  let  us  cling 
to  it  to  a  certain  extent  —  to  the  extent  that 
life  amuses,  but  does  not  hurt.  There  are 
some  of  us  who  still  have  emotions  at  an  age 
when,  had  we  lived  in  our  grandmothers' 
day,  we  should  already  have  found  perma- 
nent refuge  in  big  frilled  caps.  We  hardly 
realise  the  safeguard  there  was  in  a  cap.  It 
was  the  final  chord  to  show  that  the  sym- 
phony of  youth  had  come  to  an  end. 

In  the  days  of  our  grandparents  it  was  the 
men  who  kept  young,  while  the  women  were 
old  at  thirty-five;  but  in  these  days  men  are 
considered  old  in  their  prime,  and  it  is  the 
women  who  cling  to  eternal  youth.  Yes, 
indeed,  the  modern  tendency  requires  re- 
adjustment. But  after  all,  does  it  pay  to 
try  and  keep  young  when  one  is  really  tired 
and  scant  of  breath  ? 

Let  it  go,  even  the  loveliest  youth,  in  its 

own  good  time.     Have  we   not  each   had 

our  turn  at  it  ?     But  one  thing  there  is  to 

which  we  should  all  cling  with  might  and 

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main,  and  that  is  a  young  heart,  for  a  young 
heart  has  the  only  youth  which  is  immortal. 
It  will  make  of  any  woman,  when  the  time 
comes,  what  is  more  rare  and  lovely  than  a 
young  beauty,  it  will  make  her  a  charming 
old  woman  —  and  nothing  in  this  wide 
world  can  be  more  charming,  even  if  it  is  a 
little  out  of  fashion. 


i8o 


A   Plea  for    Women   Architects 

NOW  that  it  is  the  fashion,  as  well 
as  the  necessity,  for  women  to 
earn  their  own  living,  and  when 
they  are  crowding  into  all  the 
employments  hitherto  sacred  to  men  (and 
in  some  of  which  they  are  exceedingly  out  of 
place)  one  wonders  that  they  so  rarely  take 
to  a  profession  —  or,  rather,  to  one  branch 
of  it  —  which  seems  so  distinctly  adapted 
to  their  characteristic  talents;  and  that  is 
domestic  architecture. 

The  longer  I  live  in  England  the  more  I 
am  struck  by  the  singular  inconvenience 
of  the  average  English  house;  its  supreme 
aim  seems  to  be  to  make  the  occupier  as 
uncomfortable  as  possible.  I  do  not,  of 
course,  speak  of  palaces  which  rejoice  in  a 
majestic  dreariness,  nor  of  the  homes  of  the 
brand-new  rich,  who,  being  unencumbered 
by  ancestors  or  ancestral  castles,  can  start 
fresh  with  all  the  newest  improvements,  so 
new,  indeed,  that  they  are  still  quite  sticky 
with  varnish.  I  speak  of  the  average  per- 
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The   Champagne   Standard 

son,  who  has  a  moderate  income,  and  who, 
without  pretension,  would  yet  hke  to  get 
the  most  comfort  out  of  life. 

I  am  well  aware  that  when  it  comes  to  a 
consideration  of  the  defects  of  English 
architecture  I  shall  be  completely  crushed 
by  a  reference  to  English  cathedrals,  to 
which  the  American  makes  adoring  pilgrim- 
ages. It  is  true  they  are  glorious.  We  do 
not  live  in  cathedrals,  however,  but  in 
houses,  and  the  English  houses  are  far,  far 
behind  the  English  cathedrals. 

In  America  we  are  on  the  high  road  to 
perfection  in  domestic  architecture,  owing, 
possibly,  to  the  acknowledged  supremacy 
of  our  women.  Where  a  woman  reigns 
supreme,  it  is  the  end  and  aim  of  her  men 
to  make  her  comfortable  and  happy.  Now 
the  American  architect,  being  a  man,  and 
belonging  most  likely  to  some  woman, 
makes  it  his  pride  to  provide  for  her  —  or 
her  sex  which  she  represents  —  the  most 
comfortable,  convenient  and  pretty  house 
to  adorn  with  her  taste  and  her  presence 
until  she  moves.  We  have  no  legacies  of 
famous  cathedrals;  but,  O!  we  do  have 
absolute  comfort  in  our  houses! 
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A   Plea  for   Women   Archite cts 

A  woman  is  not  wasteful  in  small  things, 
but  a  man  is;  who  then  is  so  adapted  to 
utilise  the  small  space  which  constitutes 
the  average  house  ?  A  house  can  be  the 
visible  expression  of  all  her  cleverness,  her 
economy,  her  taste  and  her  common  sense; 
it  will  give  her  an  opportunity  to  be  great  in 
the  minor  aspirations.  Possibly  she  might 
fail  if  she  tried  to  build  a  cathedral  —  as 
she  has  failed  in  the  highest  expression  of 
any  of  the  arts  —  but  she  is  undoubtedly 
created  to  bring  that  into  the  world  which 
stands  for  comfort  and  for  happiness,  and 
where  can  she  so  fully  prove  her  homely 
genius  as  at  her  own  fireside  ? 

Ah  me,  the  fireside  reminds  me  of  how 
one  shivers  through  an  English  winter!  A 
man  does  not  realise  how  terribly  cold  a 
woman  can  be,  a  mere  man  architect  who 
rushes  about  all  day  long  with  twice  as 
much  clothing  on  as  the  average  woman 
wears,  and  who,  besides,  never  undergoes 
the  ordeal  of  a  low-necked  dress! 

It  really  would  seem  as  if  the  male  archi- 
tect of  houses  can  only  construct  the  obvious; 
his  imagination  declines  to  soar.  If  he  is 
an   Enghshman  he   firmly  believes  in  the 

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methods  of  his  ancestors  more  or  less  remote, 
and  that  explains  why  the  Victorian  house 
with  all  its  bad  taste,  and  inconvenience  still 
remains  the  popular  town  dwelling-place. 
So  common  is  it,  that  an  enterprising  burglar 
having  "burgled"  one,  can  find  his  way 
safely  over  half  the  houses  of  London, 
and  be  positively  bored  by  their  monotony! 
Now  these  houses  are  the  creations  of  men 
architects,  who  have  seen  nothing  else,  and 
who  lack  that  architectural  intuition  which 
can  make  them  evolve  what  they  have  never 
seen,  and  enables  them  to  immortaUse  in 
brick  and  mortar  the  vagaries  of  a  dream. 

Therefore  it  is  high  time  for  women  to 
come  to  the  front!  A  woman  has  intuitions, 
and  when  she  really  doesn't  know  it  is  her 
proud  boast  that  she  can  guess,  and,  surely, 
that  does  quite  as  well.  When  she  builds 
a  house  she  will  feel  it,  as  a  poet  does  his 
poem.  She  will  put  herself  in  the  place  of 
that  other  woman  whose  destiny  it  is  to  live 
there.  She  will  create  for  her  all  the  delight- 
ful things  she  wants  herself.  She  will  warm 
that  house  comfortably,  because  she  herself 
hates  to  shiver.  She  will  put  in  plenty  of 
cupboards,  because  without  cupboards  life 
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A   Plea  for   Women   Architects 


is  not  worth  living  (to  a  woman)!  Her 
kitchen  will  be  in  just  proportion  to  the 
size  of  the  house,  and  not  a  kind  of  baronial 
hall  in  which  even  the  beetles  look  lonely. 
Having  pity  on  mere  human  legs  she  will 
.cease  to  build  Towers  of  Babel. 

Then,  her  genius  being  for  detail,  she  will 
see  that  the  interior  work  of  the  house  is 
well  and  delicately  finished.  What  im- 
presses me  most  in  comparing  the  work  of 
an  English  and  an  American  workman  is 
that  the  American  is  more  careful  and  deft. 
He  leaves  no  dabs  of  paint,  or  seams  of 
coarse  cement.  The  Englishman  is  dis- 
tinctly clumsier  in  his  methods  and  his 
results. 

The  woman  architect  will  pay  especial 
attention  to  the  plumbing,  not  only  to  its 
sanitary,  but  also  to  its  ornamental  aspect, 
which  leaves  much  to  be  desired.  And  she 
will,  if  it  is  humanly  possible,  construct  a 
bathroom  for  those  of  the  household  who 
need  it  most  —  the  servants;  and  when  she 
has  done  all  this,  then  she  has  only  done 
what  is  common  in  American  houses  built 
for  families  of  comfortable,  but  not  large 
incomes. 

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The   Champagne   Standard 

Further,  the  woman  architect  will  study 
the  economical  use  of  electricity.  She  will 
not  (being  a  woman)  waste  it  by  putting 
too  much  of  it  in  impossible  and  unbe- 
coming places,  and  yet  at  the  same  time 
she  will  know  just  where  to  place  an  artful 
lamp  so  that  her  long-suffering  sister  will 
at  last  be  able  to  see,  even  at  night,  how  her 
dress  hangs.  She  will  not  be  extravagant; 
for  extravagance  she  leaves  to  her  brother 
architects,  who  understand  neither  the  value 
of  space  nor  the  wise  economy  of  exertion. 
For  this  reason  I  urge  that  women  should 
become  architects,  but  only  domestic  archi- 
tects. They  must  not  meddle  with  cathe- 
drals! 

The  more  comfortable  and  convenient 
the  houses  are  the  more  pleasant  the  daily 
life,  and  what  that  means  as  an  influence 
on  the  temper  of  a  nation  cannot  be  over- 
estimated. It  may  do  for  peace  what  the 
Hague  Conference  has  so  magnificently  failed 
to  do.  So  we  shall  inevitably  become  a 
better  and  happier  people  when  the  minor 
problems  of  life  are  solved  once  for  all:  the 
carrying  of  coal  upstairs;  the  freezing  in 
winter,  because  the  heating  methods  are 
i86 


A   Plea  for   Women   Architects 

inadequate;  and  the  shielding  of  one's 
wardrobe  from  the  festive  moth  in  a  space 
already  overflowing  with  other  garments. 

No,  women  should  never  build  cathedrals; 
but  I  am  quite  sure  it  is  their  destiny  to  build 
what  is  possibly  of  even  greater  importance, 
and  that  is  the  homes  of  the  people. 


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The   Electric  Age 


THE  American  contribution  to  the 
characteristics  of  nations  is  hurry, 
and  it  is  so  contagious  that  the 
whole  world  has  caught  the  infec- 
tion —  the  whole  world  is  in  a  hurry! 

The  modern  man  has  as  much  emotion 
and  variety  crammed  into  a  year  of  his  life 
as  would  have  sufficed  to  leaven  generations 
of  lives  two  hundred  years  ago.  Now  as 
we  can  only  eat  so  much  with  comfort,  in 
the  same  way  our  brains  will  only  assimilate 
so  many  impressions,  and  our  hearts  will 
only  bear  a  certain  amount  of  emotion.  If 
we  have  too  many  impressions  we  go  mad, 
and  if  our  hearts  are  too  full  they  break, 
only  we  are  told  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a 
broken  heart.     But  there  is. 

It  goes  without  saying  that  impressions, 
both  on  the  heart  and  the  brain,  which  are 
as  rapid  and  broken  as  the  biograph,  must 
be  of  infinitesimal  duration.  It  is  therefore 
a  foregone  conclusion  that  the  modern  man 
is  not  only  in  a  perpetual  hurry  from  his 
1 88 


The  Electric  Age 


cradle  to  that  final  rest  where  all  hurry 
ceases,  but  his  memory,  being  limited  to  a 
certain  number  of  photographic  plates,  while 
the  impressions  are  unlimited,  has  but  an 
infinitesimal  space  for  each.  The  appeals 
made  to  our  understanding  in  those  limited 
years  we  call  a  lifetime  are  simply  mad- 
dening. We  have  the  entire  daily  history 
of  the  world  dished  up  hot  for  a  ha'penny 
innumerable  times  a  day,  and  when  it  is  a 
day  old  it  is  ancient  history  fit  only  to  do 
up  bundles  with  or  light  the  fire. 

It  is  perhaps  not  one  of  the  least  terrors 
of  life  that  the  world  is  growing  so  small, 
cruelly  linked  together  by  the  copper  coils 
of  the  cable,  that  before  long  there  will  not 
be  left  a  nook  or  cranny  where  the  soul  can 
escape  to  solitude.  There  will  be  nothing 
left  to  discover  in  this  little  world,  and  if  the 
astronomers  do  not  come  to  our  aid  where 
will  the  outlet  be  for  eager  adventurers  ? 

The  world  expects  so  infinitely  much,  that 
what  constituted  a  great  explorer  fifty  years 
ago  and  set  the  world  talking,  is  the  com- 
mon experience  of  numberless  young  fel- 
lows, with  much  money  and  leisure,  who 
go  to  darkest  Africa  in  search  of  big  game, 
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The   Champagne   Standard 

and  hardly  think  it  worth  while  to  men- 
tion it. 

Everybody  does  something;  the  world  is 
on  a  tiresome  level  of  universal  ability! 
Everybody  writes  books:  whether  they  are 
read  is  a  secret  no  publisher  will  disclose. 
Art  is  pursued  with  frantic  haste,  but  is 
being  rapidly  overtaken  by  the  biograph. 
Music  stuns  the  air  and  machine  music 
proves  its  superior  ability,  and  in  the  United 
States  education  has  developed  into  a  kind 
of  decorous  mental  orgie.  Even  religion  we 
get  in  a  rush  when,  as  a  stray  sinner,  we 
wander  into  a  hall  and  are  tossed  into  a 
possible  harbour  on  the  crest  of  a  rollicking 
hymn.  Peace  to  the  soul  that  finds  a  har- 
bour, however  gained,  only  the  fact  remains 
that  it  is  often  gained  in  a  desperate  hurry. 

Statistics  prove,  we  are  told,  that  human 
life  is  longer  now  than  in  the  past,  what  with 
the  new  hygiene  and  better  nourishment; 
and  yet  the  working  days  of  a  man's  life 
have  so  pitifully  shrunk  together  that  a  man 
of  forty  is  shelved  in  these  electric  days  as 
he  once  was  at  sixty.  No  wonder  then 
that  the  world  is  in  a  tearing  haste,  seeing 
how  soon  a  man  gets  over  his  practical  use- 
190 


The   Electric  Age 


fulness,  which  means  how  soon  he  gets  to 
the  end  of  his  Ufe,  for  life  is  work;  after  that 
it  does  not  count. 

It  is  the  new  creed,  and  it  comes  from 
America  along  with  the  hurry.  It  is  the 
creed  of  a  people  who  in  their  mad  haste 
are  losing  their  sense  of  humour,  for  if  a 
man  has  a  touch  of  humour  certain  phases 
of  American  life  must,  in  the  vernacular, 
"tickle  him  to  death." 

Minerva  is  undoubtedly  the  patron  god- 
dess of  America;  did  she  not  spring  full 
panoplied  from  the  head  of  Jove  ?  She 
took  no  time  to  be  born;  she  had  no 
leisure  for  celestial  teething  nor  whooping- 
cough.  Education,  under  her  fostering 
care,  does  not  come  by  degrees. 

Yesterday  the  great  grubbing  material 
city  was  intellectually  a  desert;  to-day  it 
possesses  a  university  in  full  swing,  endowed 
with  millions,  boasting  the  last  *'cry"  of 
the  most  modern  of  brains.  Hastily  elbow- 
ing its  way  along  the  path  which  the  old 
universities  trod  in  impressive  silence  for 
centuries,  it  arrives  shoulder  to  shoulder 
with  them,  still  rather  fresh  in  the  way  of 
varnish  because  it  is  so  new,  breathing  hard 
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The   Champagne   Standard 

because  of  the  speed,  and  wanting  only  what 
is,  of  course,  of  no  earthly  consequence  — 
tradition  and  the  memory  of  what  was  both 
good  and  great.  This  seems  to  be  the  only 
thing  with  which  a  university  cannot  be 
endowed! 

All  over  the  States  universities  spring  up 
like  magnificent  mushrooms  —  over-night 
—  and  what  with  the  men's  universities,  the 
women's  colleges,  university  extension  lec- 
tures and  Chautauqua,  not  to  mention  edu- 
cational schemes  of  a  more  modest  nature, 
the  United  States  may  be  said  to  be  getting 
educated  by  electricity. 

It  takes  a  stranger  in  America  some  time 
to  get  accustomed  to  the  mental  pace.  I 
shall  never  forget  the  German  director  of  a 
rather  famous  Art  museum  there,  who  came 
to  us  in  a  towering  rage  and  blurted  out 
his  indignation.  He  had  been  in  America 
only  a  few  months  and  the  sober  methods 
of  the  Fatherland  still  clung  to  him. 

"These  Americans,  O  these  Americans!'' 
and  he  tore  his  long  hair.  "I  haf  a  letter 
this  morning  from  a  young  man,  and  he 
ask  me  —  Gott  im  Himmel,  is  it  conceiv- 
able ?  —  he  ask  me  can  I  —  I  —  I  —  what 
192 


The  Electric  Age 


you  call  it  ?  —  guarantee  —  that  he  can  be- 
came a  portrait  painter  in  three  months! 
It  is  to  grow  mad!" 

But  not  only  the  Fine  Arts.  A  young 
doctor  was  explaining  to  me  how  thorough 
and  broad  his  medical  education  had  been 
(he  was  from  the  West),  and  as  impressive 
and  conclusive  evidence  he  added,  "I've 
even  taken  an  extra  term  on  the  eye."  Now 
a  term  is  three  months. 

Alas,  it  is  all  owing  to  the  electric  age. 
Why  will  inventors  invent  so  many  time 
and  labour-saving  machines  .?  Heaven  for- 
give them!  The  more  intelligent  the  ma- 
chine the  more  machine-like  the  man  who 
runs  it,  or  is  run  by  it,  if  the  work  it  leaves 
him  to  do  is  limited  and  monotonous.  In- 
evitably his  outlook  on  life  must  become 
very  narrow,  and  he  must  lose  all  ambition, 
all  sense  of  mental  responsibility.  Think 
of  spending  the  days  of  one's  life  making 
eyelet-holes!     Many  people  do. 

What  good  is  all  this  deadly  haste  to  the 
world  ^.  What  real  good  is  it  doing  the 
labourers  and  the  lower  middle-class  men, 
of  whom  the  world  mostly  consists,  if  cables 
and  wireless  telegraphy  make  them,  so  to 
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The   Champagne   Stand ard 


speak,  the  next-door  neighbours  of  an 
estimable  yellow  man  in  China  ?  What 
help  to  them  if  they  know  the  daily  tragedies 
of  the  uttermost  corners  of  the  earth  the 
same  day  rather  than  never  ?  What  use  to 
them  the  knowledge  of  how  to  murder  their 
fellow  men  scientifically  in  a  war  with  all 
the  modern  improvements  ?  What  help  to 
them  if  a  million  inventions  make  their 
patient  hands  useless,  but  provide  them 
with  luxuries  they  cannot  afford  ? 

Every  day  thousands  of  new  companies 
are  promoted  to  exploit  inventions  that  have 
for  their  end  and  aim  the  doing  of  some- 
thing in  the  greatest  possible  hurry  with  the 
least  possible  aid  from  mere  men.  Some 
day  the  lower  classes  will  become  perfectly 
unnecessary,  like  'bus  horses.  The  world 
will  then  be  full  of  the  only  people  who  really 
count,  and  who  can  afford  to  be  in  a  hurry: 
kings  and  queens,  the  rich  and  great,  and 
above  all,  those  golden  calves  the  world 
worships,  who  rule  the  trusts,  who  in  turn 
rule  and  ruin  the  world. 

The  question  is,  will  the  world  be  as  well 
off  if  it  has  reached  the  summit  and  apex 
of  hurry?     In  those  days  there  will  be  no 
194 


The  Electric  A  ge 


more  contentment,  for  the  electric  age  is, 
of  all  things,  the  enemy  of  contentment. 
Yes,  by  that  time  the  whole  world  will  be 
discontented,  and  the  universal  character- 
istic of  nations  will  be  that  they  are  tired  — 
tired  —  tired.  Then,  of  course,  men  will 
die  in  their  early  youth,  worn  out  and  old, 
for,  after  all,  they  are  only  men  and  not 
gods.  Besides,  have  not  the  gods  always 
had  a  bad  reputation  for  jealousy,  and 
have  they  not  always  punished  the  presump- 
tuous mortals  who  tried  to  steal  their  divine 
fire? 

Even  the  Electric  Age  cannot  escape  its 
Nemesis. 


195 


Gunpowder   or    Toothpowder 

WHY  are  the  English,  admittedly 
the  apostles  of  the  tub,  so  in- 
different, as  a  rule,  to  the  con- 
dition of  their  teeth  ?  If  they 
would  do  only  an  infinitesimal  bit  as  much 
for  their  preservation  as  they  do  for  the 
preservation  of  their  monuments,  it  might 
possibly  have  a  momentous  influence  on 
English  history. 

Why  the  inside  of  a  man's  mouth  should 
be  of  no  importance  compared  to  his  outer 
man  is  a  riddle;  but  so  it  is,  and  a  man  who 
would  feel  quite  disgraced  to  be  seen  with 
dirty  hands,  leaves  his  teeth  in  a  condition 
which  is  quite  appalling.  If,  as  it  is  said, 
bad  teeth  are  a  sign  of  the  degeneracy  of  a 
race,  then  are  the  sturdy  English  in  a  very 
bad  way,  and  melancholy  indeed  is  their 
deterioration  since  the  days  of  their  ances- 
tors of  that  prehistoric  age  whose  rehcs  are 
found  in  Cornwall  and  Somerset. 

It  is  a  comfort  to  learn  that  not  only  com- 
mon sense,  but  vanity,  is  as  old  as  the  hills, 
196 


Gunpowder  or    T ooth powder 


for  among  those  ancient  remains  were  found 
some  rouge,  and  a  mirror,  all  of  which  can 
be  verified  in  the  museum  at  Glastonbury. 
My  heart  went  out  to  the  prehistoric  lady 
who  used  the  rouge;  it  brought  her  very 
near  with  its  suggestion  of  frailty  and  femi- 
nine vanity,  and  I  am  quite  sure  that  the 
mirror  as  well  was  her  property.  I  lingered 
over  the  rouge,  the  mirror,  a  tooth,  a  pre- 
historic safety-pin,  and  some  needles,  and 
let  the  others  bother  themselves  about  such 
really  unimportant  details  as  weapons  and 
utensils.  As  I  strolled  on  I  saw  a  skull 
two  thousand  years  older  than  any  recorded 
history,  and  it  grinned  cheerfully  at  me  with 
as  perfect  a  set  of  teeth  as  ever  rejoiced  the 
heart  of  a  dentist.  I  could  not  help  think- 
ing what  a  shabby  exhibition  we  should 
make  in  similiar  circumstances! 

There  is  no  doubt  that  our  over-civilisation 
deteriorates  our  teeth,  which  is  proved  when- 
ever prehistoric  remains  are  discovered. 
The  last  were,  I  believe,  found  in  Cornwall 
by  a  lucky  man  who  bought  a  strip  of  land, 
or,  properly,  sand,  on  which  to  build  him- 
self a  cottage,  and,  on  proceeding  to  dig  a 
cellar,  found  it  already  occupied  by  the 
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The   Champagne   Standard 

remains  of  prehistoric  human  beings.  Some 
of  the  skeletons  were  still  in  the  same  curi- 
ous attitude  in  which  they  had  been  buried, 
and  the  superior  ones  among  them  (socially!) 
had  the  right  sides  of  their  skulls  smashed 
in  to  prevent  the  restless  spirit  from  seeking 
re-admittance. 

It  was  the  most  melancholy  sight  in  the 
world,  these  bones  which  even  the  alchemy 
of  thousands  of  years  had  not  resolved  into 
merciful  dust.  The  immortal  skeleton  was 
there  nearly  intact,  while  brilliant,  as  if 
brushed  that  very  morning,  grinned  those 
splendid  prehistoric  teeth,  white  as  the  kernel 
of  a  nut,  impervious  to  decay. 

A  big  glass  case  against  the  wall  of  the 
little  museum,  which  has  been  built  on 
the  spot  by  the  fortunate  discoverer  of  the 
*' bones,"  was  full  of  carefully  preserved 
teeth  which  had  been  found  there,  and  their 
beauty  and  perfection  would  have  rejoiced 
the  heart  of  that  artist  in  teeth  par  excel- 
lence, the  American  dentist. 

The  room  was  crowded  by  middle-class 

excursionists,  who,  with  a  middle-class  joy 

of  horrors,  even  if  prehistoric,  in  default  of 

anything  fresher,  stared  round-eyed  at  the 

198 


Gunpowder  or    T ooth powder 

skeletons,  skulls,  shinbones  and  other  im- 
pedimenta of  decease,  and  I  was  struck  by 
the  solemnity  and  dignity  of  those  poor 
old  bones  compared  to  the  commonplaceness 
of  the  empty  faces  gazing  at  them. 

"Oh,  I  say,  don't  you  wish  you  had  them 
teeth,"  I  heard  a  young  thing  in  a  scarlet 
tarn  o'shanter  and  a  fringe  giggle  to  the 
youth  by  her  side,  with  an  imitation  panama 
tilted  back  from  his  receding  forehead.  I 
understood  the  gentle  innuendo,  as  he 
promptly  stuck  his  cane  into  his  mouth 
and  sucked. 

There  was  something  very  magnificent 
and  tragic  in  those  lonely  graves  of  a  hu- 
manity, already  extinct  when  ancient  history 
began,  resting  under  the  roll  of  the  Cornish 
sand  dunes,  where  the  sullen  cliffs  stand 
sentinels  against  the  seas.  Until  the  twen- 
tieth century  they  had  rested  forgotten,  and 
then  an  undignified  chance  betrayed  them. 

It  was  a  gold  mine  for  the  enterprising 
proprietor,  whose  moderate  charge  for  a 
sight  is  only  threepence  a  head.  He  is  a  man 
of  engaging  humour,  and  he  is  not  only  on 
intimate  terms  with  his  "bones,"  but  with 
the  eminent  scientists  who  still  wage  a 
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The   Champagne   Standard 

bitter  but  bloodless  feud  over  the  remains, 
whose  biography  so  far  is  only  written  in 
sand. 

That  he  is  not  only  a  cheerful  but  a  witty 
man  is  greatly  to  his  credit,  for  he  lives  a 
lonely  life  on  his  sand  hills,  with  only  the 
cliffs  as  his  neighbours  and  the  roar  of  the 
ocean  and  the  whistle  of  the  wind  to  break 
the  silence.  For  labour  he  excavates  his 
graveyard,  and  for  relaxation  he  catalogues 
his  bones.  His  free  and  easy  comments  on 
his  subject  (or  subjects,  rather)  are  really 
very  exhilarating  to  the  philosophic  tourist, 
and  indeed  it  was  he  who  first  drew  my 
attention  to  the  deterioration  of  English 
teeth. 

The  eccentricity  of  the  Early  Victorian 
teeth  was  for  decades  the  pet  subject  of  the 
Continental  caricaturist,  the  peculiarity  be- 
ing generally  ascribed  to  the  British  female, 
her  male  companion  merely  rejoicing  in 
hideous  plaids,  abnormal  side-whiskers,  and 
a  fearful  helmet  decorated  with  a  flowing 
puggaree.  Times  have  changed.  The  Brit- 
ish teeth  have  ceased  to  protrude,  and,  in- 
deed, they  now  veer  around  to  the  other 
extreme,  and  instead  of  prominent  front 
200 


Gunpowd er  or    Toothpowder 

teeth  the  EngUshman  now  often  rejoices 
in  no  front  teeth  at  all,  or  between  none  and 
the  ordinary  number  nature  intends  there 
are  countless  variations. 

I  have  been  waiting  for  a  genial  caricatu- 
rist to  seize  on  this  simple  and  unosten- 
tatious national  trait.  If  bad  teeth  are  a 
common  sign  of  ill-health,  then  alas  for  the 
English  masses  who  form  the  strength  of  the 
nation, for  their  neglected  teeth  are  a  menace 
and  a  warning. 

There  is  no  emotion  in  the  world,  except 
the  fear  of  death,  that  will  not  succumb  to 
an  aching  tooth.  A  villain  with  the  tooth- 
ache is  more  villainous  than  without  it; 
while  a  lover  with  the  toothache  does  not 
exist,  for  a  lover  with  the  toothache  ceases 
to  be  a  lover.  The  toothache  is  so  exquisite 
a  pain  that  it  demands  the  undivided  atten- 
tion of  the  brain,  with  a  persistency  so  nag- 
ging that  no  other  pain  enjoys.  It  will  even 
wreck  a  man's  career.  What  man  can  write  a 
great  poem  or  win  a  battle  with  an  ulcerated 
tooth  tearing  at  his  nerves!  Should  we  in- 
vestigate, it  will  be  discovered  that  the  great- 
est men  in  the  world  who  made  history,  art, 
and  science,  never  had  toothache,  which  first 

20I 


The   Champagne   Stand ard 

of  all  kills  the  imagination.  Mathemati- 
cians might  survive,  for  such  imagination 
as  they  have  is  riveted  in  facts. 

In  addition  to  the  other  disabilities,  tooth- 
ache is  undignified;  there  is  nothing  inter- 
esting or  romantic  about  it!  It  is  one  of 
the  first  pains  impartial  nature  bestows  on 
her  children,  and  which  is  the  only  common 
heritage  that  justifies  that  misleading  clause 
in  the  American  Constitution  that  all  men 
are  born  free  and  equal.  That  pain  and 
what  was  in  our  childhood  euphoniously 
called  "tummy  ache"  lead  the  revolt  in 
nurseries. 

There  is  hardly  a  bodily  ache  which 
literature  has  not  idealised,  but  an  aching 
tooth  has  yet  to  find  its  dramatic  poet.  In 
fact,  there  is  about  it  a  touch  of  the  ludicrous 
which  its  concentrated  anguish  does  not 
justify.  It  is  curious  that  so  intense  a 
suffering  should  be  so  undramatic,  but  it  is 
the  one  agony  which  does  not  desert  us 
this  side  of  the  grave,  and  which  even  the 
genius  of  a  Shakespeare  would  hesitate  to 
bestow  on  his  hero  or  heroine.  Anguish 
comes  to  them  in  many  ways,  but  the  great 
poet  discreetly  avoids  teeth. 
202 


Gunpowder   or    T ooth p  ow d er 

The  only  historical  reference  to  teeth  I 
have  ever  noticed  is  when  the  sacred  Inqui- 
sition, always  original  and  playful,  tears 
them  one  by  one  out  of  the  mouths  of 
heretics  and  Jews  as  being  gently  condu- 
cive to  confession.  But  even  this  undoubted 
torture  is  singularly  undramatic,  and  has, 
I  believe,  never  been  used  by  a  tragic  poet. 

It  is  one  of  the  aggravations  of  toothache 
that  it  inspires  but  lukewarm  sympathy; 
even  your  parents  know  you  will  not  die  of 
it.  The  greatest  concession  to  your  suffering 
is  that  you  may  stay  away  from  school,  and, 
if  you  are  very  bad,  mother  ties  a  big 
handkerchief  about  your  face,  which  is 
something,  but  not  much.  But  even  parents 
are  strangely  inconsiderate,  and  I  realised 
even  in  my  infant  days  that  had  these  same 
sufferings  been  situated  more  favourably 
in  my  body  I  should  have  been  promoted 
to  bed  and  the  family  doctor. 

A  very  famous  American  dentist  met  the 
English  husband  of  an  American  friend  of 
mine  with  the  genial  congratulation,  "My 
dear  sir,  I  wish  you  joy!  You  have  married 
a  first-rate,  Ai  set  of  teeth." 

Possibly  the  tribute  was  too  professional, 
203 


The   Champagne   St  and  ard 

but  it  really  meant  so  much.  Indeed,  one 
of  the  most  promising  signs  of  the  future  of 
the  American  people  is  the  importance  they 
attach  to  good  teeth.  The  American  dentist 
is  the  greatest  in  the  world.  His  deft  skill 
constructs  those  delicate  and  complicated 
instruments  that  help  him  to  repair  the 
ravages  of  time  and  ill-health.  Not  only 
does  he  produce  an  exact  copy  of  nature, 
but  his  is  the  only  instance  known  to  science 
where  human  ingenuity  excels  nature's  — 
his  teeth  do  not  ache!  It  is  also  required 
of  the  modern  dentist  not  only  that  he 
should  be  a  consummate  mechanic,  but  he 
must  be  a  doctor  and  surgeon  as  well,  to 
be  able  to  cure  the  cause  behind  the  dam- 
age. 

When  I  see  so  many  people  here  who 
have  bad  teeth  —  which  to  say  the  least  is 
a  blemish  —  it  is  a  prophecy  that  the  next 
generation  will  have  even  worse,  which 
means  a  deterioration  in  health,  therefore 
in  intelligence  and  ambition.  So  in  due 
course  England  will  lose  her  proud  position 
as  the  greatest  nation  in  the  world,  simply 
because  England  would  not  go  to  the  den- 
tist; which  is  a  curious  neglect  for  a  people 
204 


Gunpowder  or   Toot h powd er 

whose  morning  tub  is  much  less  likely  to  be 
neglected  than  their  morning  prayers. 

If  I  were  one  of  the  powers  that  be  I 
should  require  all  Board  Schools  to  furnish 
their  pupils  with  tooth-brushes  and  tooth- 
powder,  and  the  morning  session  should  be 
opened  with  a  general  brushing  of  teeth. 
Not  only  that,  but  I  would  have  a  dentist 
attached  to  each  school  district,  whose  duty 
it  should  be  to  attend  to  the  children's  teeth 
free  of  charge.  If  England  wants  good 
war  material  (and  there  has  been  some  ad- 
verse criticism  of  the  quality  of  her  soldiers) 
she  must  cultivate  it,  and  it  is  her  duty  to 
step  in  where  the  parent  fails.  A  day 
labourer  with  a  large  family  does  his  best 
if  he  and  they  keep  body  and  soul  together. 
It  is  for  the  State  to  step  in  and  rescue 
the  young  teeth  from  premature  decay,  thus 
undoubtedly  increasing  the  health  of  the 
growing  body,  and  at  the  same  time  teach- 
ing the  young  things  those  cleanly  habits 
which  make  for  self-respect  and  health. 

The  English  have  not  the  habit  of  going 
to  the  dentist;  money  paid  to  him  they  con- 
sider wasted  —  there  is  nothing  to  show  for 
it.     It  is  like  putting  new  drains  into  the 
205 


The   Champagne   Stand ard 

house,  only  not  so  necessary.  They  still 
have  teeth  taken  out  rather  than  stopped 
(filled),  as  being  cheaper,  and  when  they 
are  all  out  they  replace  them  on  too  slight 
a  provocation  by  what  American  humour 
calls  "store  teeth." 

Nor  are  the  English  supersensitive.  Their 
complacency,  which  upholds  them  in  more 
important  things,  inclines  them  to  believe 
that  if  their  fathers  muddled  along  with 
bad  teeth  so  can  they.  It  does  not  take 
away,  they  think,  from  the  charms  of  their 
best  girl  if  she  smiles  at  them  with  a  gap 
in  her  teeth,  or  if  in  colour  they  shade 
into  the  darkest  of  greys.  As  for  a  man, 
he  can  always  lie  in  ambush  behind  his 
moustache,  or  at  worst  he  can  draw  down 
his  upper  lip  and  leave  the  unseen  a  mystery. 

Still,  there  is  hope  for  the  future,  and 
England  shows  signs  of  awakening!  A 
truly  progressive  member  of  a  certain  board 
of  guardians  recently  had  the  temerity  to 
demand  tooth-brushes  for  the  pauper  chil- 
dren. The  worthy  mayor  who  presided  at 
the  meeting  was  nearly  paralysed  at  the 
audacity  of  the  request.  He  not  only 
sternly  refused,  but  he  denounced  it  as 
206 


Gunpowder   or    T ooth powd er 

pampered  luxury  and  extravagance,  and 
he  was  so  roused  by  the  outrageous  proposal 
that  he  taunted  his  brother  guardians,  and 
said  they  themselves  had  probably  not  in- 
dulged in  the  sinful  luxury  of  a  tooth-brush 
for  forty-five  years.  Possibly,  but  at  any 
rate  it  proves  that  England  is  really  awaken- 
ing, and  that  even  an  infant  pauper  may 
some  day  look  forward  to  the  rapture  of 
possessing  a  tooth-brush! 

Yet  even  bad  teeth  sometimes  find  their 
Nemesis!  A  very  important  pubHc  position 
was  recently  vacant  for  which  there  were 
some  two  hundred  applicants.  These  slowly 
resolved  themselves  down  to  two  —  one  an 
able  man,  and  the  other  an  exceptionally 
able  man.  They  had  to  have  a  deciding 
interview  with  the  arbiter  of  their  fate,  so 
great  a  man  that  he  is  called  a  personage, 
and  he  gave  the  position  to  the  able  man 
rather  than  the  exceptionally  able  man. 
His  explanation  for  his  curious  choice  was 
quite  simple,  **He  really  had  such  horrid 
teeth  that  I  could  not  bear  to  have  him 
always  about.'* 

Has  any  historian  left  his  testimony  as 
to  the  teeth  of  the  ancient  Romans,  when 
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The  Champagne  Stand ard 

that  great  nation  fell  into  decadence  ? 
Statues  all  testify  that  the  deterioration 
did  not  affect  their  noses,  but  I  feel  sure 
that  if  their  rigid  marble  lips  could  open 
we  should  find  the  first  cause  of  their  his- 
toric downfall. 

As  the  extinction  of  a  nation  is  fore- 
ordained in  its  very  inception,  so  the  fall 
of  America  is  possibly  already  predestined. 
Well,  it  may  be  owing  to  trusts,  but  it  will 
not  be  owing  to  teeth.  All  over  the  Amer- 
ican land  is  heard  the  busy  wheel  of  the 
dentist.  Hundreds  of  thousands  of  dentists 
are  forever  filling  and  scraping  and  pulling 
American  teeth,  and  the  American  people 
emerge  from  their  dentist  chairs  and  smile 
broadly,  a  source  of  joy  to  the  beholder 
and  not  pain.  They  pay  their  dentists,  if 
not  with  rapture,  at  least  with  resignation, 
because  they  know  that  their  children  will 
inherit  good  teeth,  and  it  will  be  a  pleasure 
to  kiss  them  from  their  cradle  on,  at  all 
stages.  Nor  when  their  young  men  go  out 
to  war  will  they  be  declared  by  the  medical 
examiners  unfit  because  of  their  bad  teeth. 
Instead,  they  will  clench  their  good  teeth 
and  fight  right  pluckily,  as  only  those  can 
208 


Gunpowd er   or   T oot h powder 

who  attend  strictly  to  business,  undisturbed 
by  pain. 

One  hears  England  called  the  freeest 
republic  in  the  world,  and  that  here,  as 
nowhere  else,  every  man  has  his  chance. 
Well,  England  may  be,  to  all  intents  and 
purposes,  a  republic,  but  to  rise  from  the 
ranks  is  only  for  the  man  of  commanding 
talent,  and  for  him  there  is  always  room  at 
the  top  —  everywhere  —  all  over  the  world. 
But  for  the  ordinary  man  who  has  ordinary 
abilities,  and  yet  is  not  without  ambition, 
America  is  the  land. 

He  may  start  as  a  day  labourer  and  have 
luck  and  his  son  may  one  day  be  President 
of  the  United  States;  or  he  may  grace  any 
one  of  those  innumerable  offices  which  are 
in  the  gift  of  a  grateful  party!  That  keeps 
self-respect  lively  in  a  man,  and  is  what 
makes  him  know  not  only  his  own  trade, 
but  just  a  little  more.  How  one  suffers  be- 
cause the  British  workman  only  does  what 
he  is  obliged  to  —  and  not  that.  How 
often  one  rebels  because  the  subordinate 
English  official  knows  just  what  he  is 
obliged  to  know,  and  not  a  hair's  breadth 
more!  That  same  man  set  down  in  America 
209 


The   Champagne   Stand ard 

will  learn  to  the  fullest  extent  of  his  intelli- 
gence. 

Tooth-brushes  make  for  health,  health 
makes  for  intelligence,  and  it  is  the  intelli- 
gent man  the  world  wants  and  pays  for; 
which  proves  the  incalculable  importance 
of  tooth-brushes  in  the  progress  of  the  world. 
Possibly  the  atmosphere  of  a  republic  is 
more  conducive  to  good  teeth;  but,  really, 
England  should  make  a  supreme  effort  to 
save  her  waning  power  from  falling  into  the 
grasp  of  the  great  republic,  which  it  is 
inevitably  bound  to  do  if  England  does  not 
go  to  the  dentist. 

In  the  political  economy  of  nations  the 
tooth-brush  is  of  much  more  importance 
than  the  sword,  and  toothpowder  is  infi- 
nitely more  important  than  gunpowder.  As 
England  never  considers  the  millions  she 
annually  spends  in  gunpowder,  why  does 
she  not  pause  in  her  martial  career  and 
spend  a  few  thousand  pounds  in  tooth- 
powder  ? 


210 


The   Pleasure  of  Patriotism 

IN  the  way  of  rulers  there  is  nothing 
quite  so  nice  as  a  king.  A  king  focuses 
one's  patriotism,  and  being  above  every- 
body in  his  kingdom  is  probably  the 
only  person  in  it  who  arouses  no  envy.  The 
fact  is  he  inspires  in  us  a  sense  of  proud  pro- 
prietorship. We  rejoice  that  he  has  the 
loveliest  of  queens,  and  the  lovelier  she 
looks  the  more  we  are  gratified,  just  as  if 
she  were  one  of  the  family.  So  when  the 
king's  diplomacy  wins  a  bloodless  victory 
we  are  as  proud  as  if  most  of  the  credit  be- 
longed to  us. 

Indeed,  one  reahses  the  intimate  pleasures 
of  patriotism  most  on  coming  from  an  im- 
personal repubHc  to  a  kingdom  where  the 
royal  family  is  a  vital  part  of  the  national 
life.  We  republicans  are  nothing  if  not 
patriotic,  but  while  we  are  loyal  to  the 
broader  aspects  of  patriotism  we  miss  per- 
haps its  little  intimate  pleasures. 

It  is,  for  example,  rather  difficult  to  feel 
a  deep  sense  of  personal  loyalty  towards  the 

211 


The   Champagne   Standard 

man  whom  the  freak  of  fortune  places  for 
four  years  at  the  head  of  the  nation,  and 
of  whom  one  knows  very  Uttle.  The  per- 
sonal interest  one  takes  in  him  and  his 
family  is  quite  artificial.  Opposed  to  him 
in  politics,  one  doubts  his  fitness  for  his 
great  position;  and  if  one  is  of  his  party  one 
favours  him  with  that  frank  criticism  which 
one  naturally  feels  for  the  man  who  yester- 
day was  no  better  than  oneself,  and  who  in 
four  years  will  come  down  from  his  exalted 
height  with  the  rapidity  of  a  sky-rocket,  only 
to  join  the  army  of  the  ** forgotten"  so 
delightfully  characteristic  of  republics. 

A  republic  is  a  worthy  and  useful  institu- 
tion, but  there  is  a  monotony  in  a  country 
that  consists  entirely  of  kings  and  queens. 
It  is  very  nice  for  all  to  be  born  free  and 
equal,  but  it  is  not  interesting,  and  there  is 
some  comfort  in  knowing  it  is  not  true,  for 
Nature  hurls  us  into  the  world  a  living  con- 
tradiction to  that  rash  statement  of  the 
Declaration  of  Independence. 

It  is  only  since  I  have  lived  in  England 
that  I  have  recognised  the  value  of  the  lesser 
patriotism.  Without  being  in  any  way  dis- 
loyal to  my  own  country,  I  must  confess 

212 


The   Pleasure   of  P atriott  sm 

that  I  am  conscious  of  quite  new  emotions 
in  this  at  least  partial  possession  of  a  king. 
One  feels  a  critical  sense  of  ownership. 
The  Houses  of  Parliament  belong  to  me, 
and  Westminster  Abbey,  and  the  Horse 
Guards.  A  whole  troop  of  these  clattered 
past  me  in  Oxford  Street  to-day,  and,  though 
they  didn't  know  it,  I  reviewed  them  from 
the  top  of  a  'bus.  I  own  the  sentries  be- 
fore Buckingham  Palace,  and  I  take  a  per- 
sonal interest  in  the  new  gilding  of  the  great 
raiUngs,  for  so  much  gilding  must  impress 
visiting  royalities,  and  visiting  royalities 
ought  to  be  impressed! 

Now  our  American  Government  not  only 
declines  to  impress  foreigners,  but  takes 
unnecessary  pains  to  remind  us  that  Benja- 
min Franklin  appeared  in  homespun  and 
woUen  stockings  at  the  Court  of  France. 
Times  have  changed  since  then,  and  though 
we  have  discarded  wollen  stockings  in  our 
intercourse  with  foreign  Courts,  our  republic, 
in  her  consistent  encouragement  of  an  out- 
of-date  Spartan  simphcity,  leaves  her  am- 
bassadors to  pay  her  legitimate  little  bills 
themselves,  with  the  result  that  she  limits 
her  choice  of  representatives  to  men  who 
213 


The   Champagne   Standard 

are  not  only  distinguished,  but  also  rich 
enough  to  pay  the  heavy  and  necessary 
expenses  of  their  great  position,  which 
should  by  right  be  covered  by  an  adequate 
salary. 

It  is  not  that  our  Government  is  impecuni- 
ous; it  is  only  pennywise.  Now  for  the  first 
time  in  our  history  America  has  an  embassy 
in  London  worthy  of  her  greatness,  thanks 
not  to  our  Government,  but  to  the  princely 
munificence  of  her  new  Ambassador.  Per- 
haps he  will  never  know  the  impetus  he 
has  given  to  the  lesser  patriotism,  nor  with 
what  innocent  pride  we  have  contemplated 
his  residence  from  every  point  of  view,  and 
with  what  patriotic  rapture  we  watched  the 
erection  of  that  splendid  marquee  destined 
for  the  welcome  of  his  fellow-countrymen. 

For  the  first  time  I  realised  that  this  was 
our  embassy  and  our  marquee,  and  I  was 
proud  of  my  country.  These  were  the  out- 
ward and  visible  sign  of  our  great  prosperity. 
Perhaps  our  Ambassador  thinks  he  is  the 
temporary  owner  of  this  stately  splendour. 
It  is  a  pardonable  mistake,  but  the  fact  is 
we  are  the  owners,  we  Americans  who  have 
strayed  into  this  crowded  and  lonely  London 
214 


The    Pleasure   of  P atriotis 


m 


by  way  of  Cook's  tours,  and  floating  palaces, 
and  who  are,  many  of  us,  homesick  for  the 
sight  of  something  "real  American." 

Last  Saturday  we  celebrated  that  famous 
Fourth  of  July  which  England  is  so  cour- 
teous as  to  forgive.  For  the  first  time  we 
penetrated  into  our  embassy.  We  were 
aliens  no  more,  we  were,  so  to  speak,  on  our 
native  heath,  we  could  not  be  crushed  even 
by  those  magnificent  footmen  in  powder 
and  plush  —  our  footmen  —  who,  as  be- 
seems the  footmen  of  a  free  and  independent 
people,  were  quite  aff^able. 

How  proudly  we  patriots  filed  up  the 
marble  stairs  and  stared  at  the  pictures  and 
at  each  other,  and  acknowledged  with  a 
genuine  glow  of  pride  how  well  we  were  all 
dressed.     I  guess! 

"We  are  a  prosperous  nation,"  I  exulted, 
as  I  had  some  republican  refreshment  in  the 
marquee  under  a  roof  of  green-and-white 
striped  bunting.  How  good  the  lemonade 
tasted!  A  patriotic  lady,  with  a  huge  bow 
of  stars  and  stripes  tied  in  her  buttonhole, 
said  enthusiastically,  ''There  is  nothing 
hke  American  lemonade!" 

For  once  one  rose  superior  to  the  English. 

215 


The   Champagne   Standard 

One  longed  to  recite  to  them  the  Declaration 
of  Independence.  I  swelled  with  pride,  it 
was  all  so  well  done,  and  it  was  my  embassy, 
my  marquee,  my  ices,  and  my  Ambassador. 
For  the  first  time  one  revelled  in  the  joy  of 
a  worthy  possession.  For  once  the  English 
accent  was  relegated  where  it  belonged  — 
to  the  background  —  and  we  Americans 
talked  unreproved  with  all  those  delightful 
and  familiar  intonations  which  eighty  mil- 
lions of  people  have  stamped  as  classic. 

My  only  other  experience  of  a  Fourth  of 
July  reception,  though  there  have  been 
many  distinguished  and  hospitable  American 
Ministers  since,  was  years  ago.  Two  of  us, 
urged  on  by  patriotism,  chartered  a  four- 
wheeler,  and  were  deposited  before  a  modest 
house,  which  was  so  dark  inside,  compared 
to  the  glare  outside,  that  we  stumbled  up 
the  dim  stairs  behind  other  ardent  republi- 
cans, and  groped  for  the  hand  of  our  host- 
ess, who  had  apparently  mislaid  her  smile 
early  in  the  day.  Then  we  blinked  our  way 
into  a  dark  drawing-room,  where  a  circle 
of  patriots  stared  coldly  at  us. 

In  our  search  for  our  Minister  we  attached 
ourselves  to  a  little  procession  that  filed  into 
216 


The   Pleasure   of  Patriotism 

the  next  room,  and  we  found  him  talking 
with  deUghtful  affability  to  an  EngUshman. 
To  an  Englishman,  and  on  this  day  of  all 
days!  To  an  enemy  of  that  great  country 
which  paid  him  his  inadequate  salary,  while 
we,  his  own  people,  stood  meekly  about 
waiting  until  it  should  suit  him  to  notice  us, 
and  bestow  on  us  that  handshake  which  is 
the  inexpensive  entertainment  of  all  repub- 
lican functions. 

First  we  stood  on  one  foot,  and  then  we 
stood  on  the  other,  and  then  we  coughed 
—  a  deprecating,  appealing  cough  —  and 
finally  our  Minister  took  a  lingering,  fond 
farewell  of  his  Englishman,  and  then  turned 
to  us,  with  a  frost-bitten  expression  of  resig- 
nation which  did  not  encourage  us  to  linger. 
We  shook  his  limp  hand,  and  then  we 
jostled  each  other  into  the  dining-room. 

We  were  filled  with  an  acute  resentment, 
but  far  from  declining  to  break  bread  in  his 
house  we  decided  to  take  it  out  of  him  in 
refreshments;  but  the  unobtrusive  simplicity 
of  the  preparations  foiled  our  unworthy 
designs. 

Those  were  simpler  days,  and  enthusi- 
astic republicans  arrived  in  every  variety  of 
217 


The   Champagne   Standard 

attire.  Most  popular  of  all  was  that  linen 
"duster"  with  which  in  all  its  creases  the 
travelling  American  loved  to  array  himself. 
Sometimes  he  wore  a  coat  under  it  and  some- 
times he  didn't.  Those  were  the  days  of 
paper  collars  and  "made-up"  ties,  and  on 
state  occasions  a  cluster  diamond  "bosom 
pin."  It  was  a  stifling  hot  day,  and  we 
passed  into  the  small  dining-room,  where  a 
long  table  imprisoned  three  waiters.  It  was 
a  question  of  each  for  himself,  and  I  re- 
member the  father  of  a  family  clutching  a 
plate  of  what  we  Americans  call  "crackers," 
and  refusing  the  contents  to  all  but  his  own 
offspring. 

How  we  struggled  for  tea,  and  what  a 
mercy  it  was  that  the  waiters  were  pro- 
tected from  bodily  assault  by  the  table! 
One  bestowed  on  me  a  tablespoonful  of  ice 
cream,  densely  flavoured  with  salt.  For  a 
moment  I  hated  my  country.  Republican 
elbows  poked  me  in  every  direction,  and 
while  I  stood  helpless  in  the  crush  I  saw 
an  elderly  and  stout  compatriot  pour  the 
tea  she  had  captured  into  the  saucer,  and 
with  a  placid  composure  proceed  to  drink 
it  in  that  simple  way. 
218 


The   Pie  as  ure   of  P  atrioti  s 


m 


".To  think  of  it,"  a  voice  cried  into  my 
ear  in  pained  and  shocked  surprise,  "and 
she  a  relation  of  Longfellow's!" 

Exhausted  I  found  myself  in  the  street 
in  a  chaos  of  frantic  republicans,  part  of 
whom  clamoured  to  get  into  the  house,  and 
part  struggled  to  get  out. 

If  our  great  Government  would  only 
realise  that  there  is  nothing  so  good  for  the 
soul  as  a  thrill  of  patriotism!  It  is  worth 
cultivating.  We  cannot  all  lay  down  our 
lives  for  our  country,  but  there  are  lesser 
acts  of  loyalty  which  are  of  infinite  value. 
It  belongs  to  the  lesser  patriotism  to  show 
other  folks  that  we  are  just  as  good  as  they 
are,  if  not  a  bit  better.  It  is  our  patriotic 
duty  to  wear  good  clothes,  to  look  prosper- 
ous, and  to  prove  to  foreigners  that  the  star- 
spangled  banner  is  quite  at  home  even  when 
floating  over  a  palace.  It  is  really  worth 
while  going  down  Park  Lane  just  to  say 
"Our  Embassy!" 

When  I  told  the  cabman  to  drive  to  the 
American  Embassy,  and  for  the  first  time 
in  history  he  positively  knew  the  way,  I 
thrilled  with  patriotic  pride.  It  marked 
an  epoch. 

219 


Romance  and  Eyeglasses 

IT  is  curious  to  observe  that  even  the 
greatest  reaUsts  do  not  venture  to 
bestow  eyeglasses  on  their  heroines. 
It  is  rather  odd  too,  seeing  how  many 
charming  women  do  in  real  life  wear  them, 
nor  are  they  debarred  by  them  from  the 
most  dramatic  careers  and  the  most  poign- 
ant emotions.  But  while  the  modern 
novelist  has  bestowed  eyeglasses  on  every- 
body else  he  has  not  yet  had  the  hardihood 
to  put  them  on  the  nose  of  his  heroine. 
Why? 

It  is  a  problem  which  again  shows  the 
unquestionably  undeserved  and  superior 
position  of  man,  for  a  novelist  does  not 
hesitate  to  put  him  behind  any  kind  of 
glasses,  and  leave  him  just  as  fascinating 
and  dangerous  as  he  was  before.  Eye- 
glasses are  so  much  the  common  lot  of 
humanity  these  degenerate  days  that  babies 
are  nearly  born  with  them,  to  judge  at 
least  from  the  tender  age  of  the  bespectacled 
infants  one  sees  trundled  past  in  their  per- 
220 


Romance   and  Eyeglasses 

ambulators.  And  there  is  no  doubt  that 
the  time  will  come,  if  the  strain  on  the  hear- 
ing increases  from  the  diabohc  noises  in 
the  streets,  that  the  next  generation's  hear- 
ing will  be  as  much  affected  as  our  eyes  are 
now.  The  result  will  be  that  all  the  world 
will  be  using  ear-trumpets,  and  the  novelist 
of  the  future,  the  accredited  historian  of 
manners,  will  be  obliged,  if  he  is  at  all  accu- 
rate, to  have  his  love-sick  hero  whisper  his 
passion  to  the  heroine  through  an  ear- 
trumpet.  However  it  is  a  comfort  not  to 
be  obliged  to  solve  the  riddles  of  the  future. 
Still  if  it  is  inevitable  that  the  future  deaf 
hero  will  have  to  fall  in  love  with  a  deaf 
heroine,  why  should  not  the  present  astig- 
matic hero  in  novels  be  permitted  to  fall  in 
love  with  a  beautiful  creature  in  glasses  ? 
He  certainly  does  it  often  enough  in  real  life. 
Of  course  it  would  not  do  for  a  heroine  to 
have  a  wooden  leg,  I  grant,  and  yet  I  have 
met  a  hero  with  a  wooden  leg,  and  I  am 
quite  sure  I  know  several  who  have  lost 
an  arm;  why  then  should  it  be  required  of 
us  poor  women  to  be  so  perfect  ?  If  a  man 
can  wear  spectacles  without  forfeiting  his 
position  as  a  hero  of  romance,  I  demand 

221 


The   Champagne   Standard 

the  same  right  for  a  woman.  Why,  a  man 
can  even  be  bald  and  she  will  love  him  all 
the  same!  Now  I  ask  would  the  hero 
love  her  under  the  same  circumstances  ? 
There  is  no  use  arguing,  for  that  very  fact 
proves  that  there  are  laws  for  men  and 
laws  for  women. 

The  truth  is  she  will  love  him  under  every 
objectionable  kind  of  circumstance,  both  in 
real  life  and  in  novels.  Has  not  a  thrilling 
romance  of  recent  years  produced  a  hero 
without  legs,  and  made  him  all  the  more 
hideously  captivating  to  the  patron  of  the 
circulating  library  ?  Now  what  novel  reader 
would,  even  under  the  auspices  of  so  gifted 
a  novelist,  take  any  stock  in  a  heroine  simi- 
larly afflicted  ?  Yes  I  fear,  though  it  is 
neither  here  nor  there,  that  men  also  have 
it  their  own  way  in  literature. 

To  be  sure  there  are  instances  of  blind 
heroines  inspiring  a  passion,  and  also,  I 
believe,  of  lame  heroines  hmping  poeti- 
cally through  the  pages  of  a  novel,  as  well 
as  burdened  with  other  disabiUties  which 
apparently  never  take  away  from  their 
charms;  but  I  know  of  no  heroine  whom 
the  novelist  has  endowed  with  a  pince-nez. 

222 


Roman  ce   and  E  ye  glas  s  e  s 

Now  why  are  glasses  in  literature  so  incom- 
patible with  romance  in  a  woman  while  they 
never  damage  a  man  ? 

Why  can  a  man  look  at  the  object  of  his 
passionate  adoration  through  all  the  known 
varieties  of  glasses  and  yet  not  lose  for  an 
instant  the  breathless  interest  of  the  most 
gushing  of  novel  readers  ?  His  eyeglasses 
may  even  grow  dim  with  manly  tears,  and 
the  lady  readers'  own  eyes  will  be  blurred 
with  sympathetic  moisture.  But  let  the 
heroine  weep  behind  her  glasses  and  the 
most  inveterate  devourer  of  novels  will 
close  the  book  in  revolt.  It  is  no  use  to 
describe  how  the  heroine's  great  brown 
eyes  looked  yearningly  at  the  hero  behind 
her  glasses,  nor  how  they  swam  in  tears 
behind  those  same  useful  articles,  the  reader 
refuses  to  read,  and  even  if  the  heroine  is 
only  nineteen  and  bewitchingly  beautiful, 
she  is  at  once   divested  of   any  romance. 

What  a  mercy  for  the  novelist  in  this  age 
of  perpetual  repetition,  of  twice  told  tales, 
if  he  might  give  his  heroine  a  new  attribute! 
One  feels  sure  that  if  eyeglasses  and  their 
variations  were  permitted  they  would  pro- 
duce quite  a  new  kind  of  heroine,  to  the 
223 


The   Champagne   Standard 

immense  advantage  and  relief  of  literature. 
Of  course  the  novelist  has  to  keep  up  with 
the  times;  it  is  as  imperative  for  him  as  for 
the  fashion-books,  for  it  is  from  him  alone 
that  future  generations  will  learn  how  we 
lived,  dressed  and  looked,  and  what  were 
our  favourite  sufferings.  So  the  novelist 
cannot  of  course  ignore  what  is  so  common 
as  eyeglasses  and  he  has  in  turn  bestowed 
them  on  all  his  characters  except  his  hero- 
ines. One  can  understand  his  hesitation 
when  one  tries  oneself  to  put  glasses  on  the 
noses  of  one's  own  literary  pets,  and  then 
realises  how  they  war  with  romance.  Put 
a  pair  on  the  nose  of  the  loveliest  Rosalind 
who  ever  wandered  through  the  enchanted 
forest  of  Arden,  or  let  the  most  pathetic 
Ophelia  look  through  them  at  Hamlet  with 
grief-stricken  eyes,  and  I  am  quite  sure 
that  even  Shakespeare's  poetry  would  not 
survive  the  shock. 

But  if  eyeglasses  are  tabooed  by  nov- 
elists, what  shall  we  say  of  spectacles  ? 
What  gallery  would  accept  a  Juhet  with 
spectacles  ?  For  a  woman  in  literature  to 
wear  spectacles  is  to  put  her  out  of  the  pale 
of  romance  at  once.  Even  in  real  life  spec- 
224 


Rom  ance    and  Eyeglasses 

tacles  are  a  problem,  but  to  the  heroine  of 
a  novel  they  are  impossible.  No  novelist 
with  any  regard  for  his  publisher  or  his 
sales  would  venture  to  give  his  heroine 
gold  spectacles.  The  only  ones  I  remem- 
ber as  the  property  of  a  heroine  of  fiction 
belonged  to  the  heroine  when  she  repented, 
and  they  more  than  anything  else  proved 
the  sincerity  of  her  remorse,  and  these 
were  the  famous  blue  spectacles  in  "East 
Lynne"  that  worked  such  an  amazing 
transformation  upon  that  erring  and  re- 
pentant lady. 

Yes,  a  heroine  can  be  repentant  behind 
spectacles,  but  I  defy  her  to  be  alluring.  I 
was  struck  by  their  sobering  effect  on  study- 
ing the  head  of  the  Venus  de  Medici  deco- 
rated with  a  pair  in  the  window  of  an 
inspired  optician.  They  so  changed  her  ex- 
pression that  she  might  have  successfully 
applied  for  a  position  in  a  board-school. 

It  is  possibly  a  digression,  but  I  should  like 
to  know  why  opticians  and  corset-makers 
look  upon  the  young  Augustus  and  Clytie, 
who  loved  Apollo  the  sun-god,  as  especially 
created  to  exhibit  their  wares  ?  It  seems 
but  a  pitiful  ending  to  the  career  of  a  Roman 
225 


The   Champagne   St  and  ar  d 

Emperor  to  show  the  passing  multitude  how 
to  wear  spectacles,  or  to  prove  the  superior 
excellence  of  a  certain  kind  of  green  shade 
for  weak  eyes.  And  why  should  Clytie,  with 
her  face  shyly  downbent,  as  well  it  may  be, 
be  obliged  to  appear  in  the  newest  things 
in  stays,  in  Great  Portland  Street  ?  I 
wonder. 

To  return  to  glasses.  Perhaps  the  only 
thing  in  glasses  on  which  a  rash  novelist 
might  venture  is  the  monocle.  I  have  not 
yet  met  a  feminine  monocle  in  fiction,  but 
we  all  know  its  entrancing  effect  when  worn 
by  a  man.  We  even  realise  its  power  in 
real  life.  It  gives  a  man  a  kind  of  moral 
support  and  even  changes  his  character. 
I  have  seen  meek  and  rather  ordinary  men 
stick  in  a  monocle,  and  it  at  once  gave 
them  that  fictitious  fascination,  that,  so  to 
speak,  go-to-the-devil  impudence  which  is 
so  irresistible.  It  is  the  aid  to  sight  essen- 
tially of  the  upper  classes,  or  of  the  best 
imitation,  and  as  such  it  naturally  inspires 
the  confidence  of  society. 

Of  course  the  feminine  monocle  is  not 
adapted  to  all  costumes,  but  there  is  about 
it  a  rakishness,  a  coquetry  particularly  suited 
226 


Romance   and  Eyeglasses 

to  a  riding-habit.  The  suggestion  is  quite 
at  the  service  of  any  harassed  noveUst.  It 
may  be  quite  as  much  a  help  to  sight  as 
spectacles,  but,  O,  the  difference !  A  woman 
buries  her  youth  behind  spectacles,  but 
she  can  coquet  to  the  very  end  behind  a 
monocle. 

A  charming  creature  used  to  pass  my 
v^indow  every  day  on  horseback.  I  had  a 
distant  vision  of  a  rounded  figure  in  the 
perfection  of  a  habit,  a  silk  hat  at  just  the 
right  angle  and  a  monocle.  I  wove  romances 
about  her;  she  was  Lady  Guy  Spanker  and 
all  the  rest  of  those  mannish  and  dangerous 
coquettes  of  whom  I  had  read.  Yesterday 
we  met  at  a  mutual  greengrocer's.  She 
was  elderly,  and  she  had  discarded  the 
monocle  for  a  pair  of  working  eyeglasses 
with  black  rims,  through  which  she  studied 
the  vegetables  with  the  eye  of  experience. 
She  also  wore  a  wig,  a  black  wig.  I  was 
so  aghast  that  I  stared  speechlessly  at  the 
greengrocer  who  patiently  offered  me  cab- 
bages at  "tuppence"  a  piece.  "It  can't 
be,"  I  said,  still  staring.  "I  beg  your  par- 
don. Madam,"  he  said,  quite  offended,  "it's 
the  usual  price."  "  It  must  be  the  monocle," 
227 


The   Champagne   Stand ard 

and  I  pursued  my  train  of  thought  aloud. 
*'No,'*  the  greengrocer  retorted  with  some 
impatience,  "it's  a  Savoy." 

But  it  is  only  the  monocle  which  has  that 
rejuvinating  effect.  The  other  day  I  called 
on  the  loveliest  woman  I  know,  and  who 
has  always  seemed  to  me  the  picture  of 
exquisite  and  immortal  youth.  She  looked 
up  from  the  corner  of  a  couch  sumptuous 
with  brilUant  cushions.  She  had  been 
reading,  and  she  laid  aside  her  book  and 
something  else.  I  followed  her  hand  and 
felt  as  guilty  as  if  I  had  been  caught  eaves- 
dropping. There  lay  a  pair  of  gold  spec- 
tacles and  I  saw  a  red  line  across  the  bridge 
of  her  lovely  nose.  Those  wicked  spec- 
tacles! How  they  took  away  the  bloom  of 
her  youth.  To  me  she  will  never  seem 
young  again,  only  well-preserved,  alas! 
How  tragic  to  think  that  even  beauty 
comes  to  spectacles  at  last!  Now  how 
different  it  is  with  men.  If  they  do  have  to 
wear  spectacles  they  do  it  boldly,  and  not 
on  the  sly,  and  yet  they  always  find  some 
one  to  love  them,  so  the  novelists  prove, 
and  they  ought  to  know. 

But  a  heroine  with  spectacles,  that  is  a 
228 


Romanc e   and  Eyeglasses 

different  thing.  What  noveHst  has  the 
courage  for  such  an  innovation  ?  Even 
realism,  which  we  know  usually  stops  at 
nothing,  does  draw  the  line  there. 

Now  I  do  ask  in  all  seriousness,  are  eye- 
glasses in  fiction  really  so  incompatible 
with  romance? 


229 


The   Plague   of  Music 


YESTERDAY  as  I  strolled  through 
this  little  Hampshire  village,  I 
passed  a  woman  with  a  baby  in 
her  arms,  followed  by  a  chubby 
boy  of  about  three,  whose  little  trousers 
had  only  just  emerged  from  the  petticoat 
stage.  He  lingered  behind  his  mother, 
and  drew  across  his  pursed-up  lips  and  his 
puffed-out  red  cheeks  the  instrument  called  a 
mouth  harmonica,  and  drank  in  rapturously 
his  own  celestial  harmonies. 

"Come  'long  with  your  mewsic,"  his 
mother  remarked  briefly  over  her  shoulder. 
And  he  came. 

I  looked  smilingly  after  that  young  dis- 
ciple of  what  may  be  truly  described  as  the 
most  offensive  of  the  fine  arts,  and  medi- 
tated on  the  poverty  of  language  which 
describes  by  the  same  word  the  art  of 
Beethoven  and  the  tooting  of  a  penny 
whistle  —  at  least  in  the  vernacular  of  the 
people. 

There    is,    perhaps,    no    common    char- 
230 


The   Plague   of  Music 


acteristic  more  unfortunate  than  the  sheep- 
like habit  human  beings  have  of  imitating 
each  other.  As  infants,  the  howHng  of  one 
baby  certainly  encourages  any  evilly  dis- 
posed infant  in  the  neighbourhood  to  imita- 
tion, and  a  group  of  roaring  youngsters 
rejoice  in  their  rivalling  shrieks. 

As  we  grow  older  this  artless  love  of  noise 
is  of  necessity  controlled,  but  human  nature 
must  have  vent,  so  by  a  kind  of  common 
consent  we  give  way  to  our  natural  exuber- 
ance in  what,  for  lack  of  other  description, 
we  are  pleased  to  call  "music."  Music  is 
the  only  divine  art  we  are  promised  in 
Heaven,  and  it  is  certainly  the  only  divine 
art  with  which  we  are  tortured  on  earth. 

The  nerves  of  the  ear  must  be  the  most 
sensitive  of  the  whole  nervous  system,  for 
they  have  it  in  their  power  to  inflict  the 
most  exquisite  torture.  The  silent  arts,  no 
matter  how  outrageously  presented,  cannot 
possibly  make  one  quiver  in  agony,  nor  set 
one's  teeth  on  edge  with  the  sharp  lash  of  a 
discord.  Eyes  are  long-sufiFering,  and  they 
look  at  what  is  discordant  with  indifference, 
possibly  with  resignation,  and  at  most  with 
impatience;  nor  have  these  silent  discords 
231 


The   Champagne   Standard 

the  power  to  leave  the  human  being  dis- 
tinctly the  worse  for  his  experience. 

No  other  art  is  able  to  inflict  such  merci- 
less suffering!  Under  the  name  of  music 
we  are  afflicted  with  every  variety  of  noise, 
including  the  hand  organ,  the  bagpipes, 
the  German  band,  the  man  who  toots  the 
cornet  in  the  street,  the  harp  man,  the  lady 
who  has  seen  better  days  and  who  sings 
before  our  house  in  the  evening,  the  active 
piano-organ  invented  by  a  heartless  genius, 
the  musical  box  and  all  its  amazing  pro- 
genies, the  gramophone  and  the  pianola. 
Not  to  mention  the  millions  of  pianos  and 
the  millions  of  fiddles  that  never  cease  be- 
ing thumped  and  scratched  all  the  world 
over  night  and  day.  The  contemplation  of 
such  collective  discord  is  truly  appalling. 

Unfortunately  for  us  we  live  in  an  inven- 
tive and  imitative  age,  and  one  is  inchned 
to  think  that  the  devil  is  the  patron  saint 
of  inventors,  or  why  has  the  blameless  spinet 
waxed  great  and  blossomed  into  a  piano? 
Why  should  the  resources  of  a  modern  or- 
chestra be  at  the  disposal  of  every  infant 
whose  mistaken  mother  plumps  it  down  on 
the  piano-stool  and  lets  it  thump  the  keys 
232 


The   Plague   of  Music 


to  keep  it  quiet!  One  would  so  much 
rather  hear  its  natural  shrieks  than  that 
other  noise  which  is  supposed  to  be  a  harm- 
less substitute!  Why  music,  of  all  the 
fine  arts,  with  its  power  for  inflicting  untold 
anguish,  should  be  the  most  common,  passes 
my  understanding. 

The  printed  page  is  undoubtedly  long- 
suffering,  but  it  is  silent.  It  is  of  course 
true  that  to  be  an  author,  nothing  is  neces- 
sary but  a  sheet  of  paper  and  a  pencil,  but 
I  defy  the  most  energetic  author  to  read  his 
work  to  ears  that  refuse  to  hear.  Now 
with  music  it  is  different,  one  simply  cant 
get  away  from  it,  because  cruel  inventions 
—  I  do  not  think  I  am  exaggerating }  — 
have  brought  its  exercise  within  reach,  I 
will  not  say  of  the  poor  only,  for  the  thump- 
ing of  the  rich  and  great  is  equally  horrid, 
but  of  the  mistaken  poor. 

I  do  not  urge  that  the  infant  mind,  in  the 
process  of  being  cultivated,  should  be  turned 
to  literature,  for  it  is  bad  enough  already 
owing  to  benevolent  publishers  who,  in  the 
praiseworthy  desire  not  to  allow  any  light 
to  be  hidden  under  a  bushel,  emulate  each 
other  in  trying  to  illuminate  the  world  with 

233 


The   Champagne   Stand ard 

farthing  tallow-dips!  It  would,  indeed,  be 
ghastly  to  listen  to  the  literary  outpourings 
of  every  infant  one  met,  and  equally  ghastly 
never  to  be  able  to  flee  from  the  rendering 
of  masters  of  literature  as  interpreted  by  the 
intellect  of  three  years  up.  Thank  heaven, 
we  are  spared  this  in  literature  if  not  in 
music,  but,  I  ask,  if  we  must  have  a  fine 
art  to  trifle  with,  why  not  take  to  painting  ? 
Painting  is  so  inoffensive. 

It  was  the  English  who,  before  they  be- 
came so  musical,  dallied  for  a  while  with 
painting.  There  was  a  time,  if  we  may 
believe  those  biographers  of  manners,  the 
novelists,  when  all  England  sketched,  and 
so  gave  vent  to  all  its  superabundant  emo- 
tion in  paint.  There  was  no  landscape 
safe  from  the  emotional  Englishwoman. 
Instead  of  strumming  false  notes  on  the 
hotel  piano  she  went  out  with  a  paint-box 
and  sketched  the  uncomplaining  landscape. 
At  any  rate  the  long-suffering  landscape 
made  no  sound. 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  one  suffers  less 
from  a  bad  picture  than  from  a  bad  any- 
thing else,  the  agony  also  is  short,  nor  is  it 
necessary  in  the  process  of  painting  to 
234 


The   Plague   of  Music 


inflict  pain.  Painting  is  an  exceedingly 
silent  art,  and  its  results  are  easily  disposed 
of  as  wedding  presents,  because  the  recipient 
cannot  possibly  rebel. 

There  is,  also,  that  delightful  alternative 
of  decorating  one's  house  with  one*s  own 
immortal  works.  I  was  recently  shown  a 
lovely  picture  gallery  entirely  hung  with  the 
work  of  its  owner.  I  emerged  from  the 
experience  smiling  and  quite  calm.  Now 
what  would  have  been  my  condition  had 
the  good  lady  insisted  on  reciting  to  me 
eighty  of  her  poems  (there  were  eighty  pic- 
tures), or,  more  harrowing  still,  had  she  in- 
sisted on  playing  to  me  eighty  compositions 
of  her  own,  or  even  eighty  compositions  of 
others,  with  stiff  and  reluctant  hands  ?  For 
which  reason  I  maintain  that  painting  is 
the  most  inoffensive  of  the  arts  and  deserves 
to  be  encouraged. 

But  seriously,  why  should  every  child  be 
taught  to  play  the  instrument  quite  irre- 
spective of  its  having  any  talent  or  taste  for 
music  .?  Why  in  the  world,  where  martyr- 
dom is  usually  the  price  of  living,  should  a 
select  little  army  of  martyrs  suffer  a  double 
martyrdom .?    Why  draw  them  by  the  hairs 

235 


The   Champagne   Standard 

of  their  inoffensive  heads  to  the  piano-stool 
and  make,  as  it  were,  at  one  fell  swoop,  two 
martyrs,  the  one  at  the  piano  and  the  wretch 
who,  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  gives  the 
lie  to  Congreve,  who  mistakenly  declared 
that  "Music  has  charms  to  soothe  a  savage 
breast"?  Had  Congreve  Hved  now  he 
would  have  hesitated  to  make  so  rash  a 
statement. 

In  Congreve's  day  the  piano,  the  greatest 
instrument  of  torture  of  modern  times,  had 
not  been  evolved.  Its  ancestor,  the  spinet, 
tinkled  plaintively  away  under  its  breath 
like  a  musical  mosquito  with  a  cold  on  its 
chest,  and  was  —  alas,  how  happily!  — 
within  reach  of  only  the  few.  In  those  days, 
when  its  feeble  tinkle  was  a  mere  whisper, 
house-walls  were  made  of  such  stupendous 
thickness  that  not  even  the  turmoil  of  a 
modern  orchestra  in  the  next  room  could 
have  penetrated. 

But  now,  in  these  unhappy  days,  when 
every  family  is  obliged  to  have  a  piano  or 
be  despised,  and  when  in  apartment-houses 
each  floor  quivers  to  a  piano  of  its  own,  the 
architect  and  contractor  —  a  terrible  com- 
bination for  evil! — have  conspired  together 
236 


The   Plague   of  Music 


to  erect  walls  like  tissue  paper,  behind 
which  the  harassed  householder  cowers, 
mercilessly  exposed  to  musical  scales  as 
practised  on  an  instrument  powerful  enough 
to  have  cast  down  the  walls  of  Jericho.  And 
here  he  vainly  seeks  for  a  peaceful  retreat 
from  the  noise  of  cabs,  'buses,  motors, 
traction-engines,  electric  trams,  and  all  the 
other  ear-splitting  sounds  which,  apparently, 
follow  in  the  relentless  march  of  progress. 

It  is  very  appaUing  to  consider  that  at 
this  very  moment  the  children  of  the  entire 
civilised  world  are,  with  few  exceptions, 
engaged  in  playing  false  notes  on  a  variety 
of  musical  instruments.  It  is  not  too  much 
to  say  that  in  this  respect  the  uncivilised 
have  a  colossal  advantage  over  the  civilised. 

In  a  certain  familiar  oratorio  innumerable 
pages  and  much  time  are  taken  up  in  an 
endless  reiteration  of  the  words,  "All  we 
like  sheep."  I  beg  to  ask  if  the  worthy 
sopranos,  altos,  tenors  and  the  rest,  ever 
did  realise  the  profound  truth  of  that  over- 
repeated  and  rather  monotonous  statement  ? 
We  are  all  like  sheep!  We  do  what  our 
neighbours  do;  we  think  what  they  think 
and  we  wear  what  they  wear.  In  fact,  we 
237 


The   Champagne   St  and  ard 

are  tailor-made  inside  and  out;  no,  we  are 
worse  than  tailor-made,  we  are  ready-tailor- 
made,  for  we  are  made  by  the  gross. 

If  there  is  a  thing  the  world  shudders  at 
and  resents  it  is  originality.  If  a  human 
being  cannot  be  classified  as  belonging  to 
a  certain  cut  of  trousers,  coat  or  waistcoats, 
let  him  beware,  for  he  is  a  misfit  human 
being,  and  we  all  know  the  cheap  end  of  all 
misfits!  It  is  as  embarrassing  to  have  any- 
thing obtrusive  in  one's  mental  make-up 
as  in  one's  physical.  Happy  is  he  who  is 
on  a  dead  level! 

One  would  like  to  offer  up  a  meek  plea 
for  originality  were  one  not  aware  how  un- 
popular it  would  be.  To  be  original  is  only 
next  worse  thing  to  being  a  genius.  We  do 
resign  ourselves  to  sporadic  cases  of  genius, 
but  a  world  peopled  by  genius  (for  we  all 
know  what  that  is  akin  to)  is  more  than 
we  could  stand.  It  is  about  the  same  with 
originality.  So  the  next  time  we  sing  "All 
we  like  sheep,"  let  us  consider  well  the 
meaning  of  these  inspiring  but  misunder- 
stood words,  and  greatly  rejoice. 

This  train  of  thought  is  the  result  of  my 
landlady's  little  boy,  separated  from  me 
238 


The   Plague   of  Music 


only  by  a  thin  lath  partition  of  a  wall,  play- 
ing five-finger  exercises  in  halting  rhythm 
and  with  innumerable  false  notes.  The  in- 
strument is  one  in  which  the  flight  of  years 
has  left  a  tone  like  a  discontented  nutmeg- 
grater.  If  the  little  boy  had  the  legs  of  a 
centipede  and  played  his  chosen  instrument 
with  these  instead  of  two  dingy  little  hands, 
he  could  not  perpetrate  more  false  notes. 

The  number  of  false  notes  that  can  be 
evolved  through  the  medium  of  eight  fingers 
and  two  thumbs  is  simply  appalling!  The 
little  boy,  a  pale  child  in  a  long  pinafore 
and  big  white  ears,  hates  his  chosen  instru- 
ment as  much  as  I  do,  and  so  we  meet  on 
a  level  of  mutual  affliction.  I  loathe  hear- 
ing him,  and  he  hates  his  instrument;  now, 
in  the  name  of  good  common  sense,  why 
must  he  be  offered  up  as  a  sacrifice  ? 

His  mother  is  a  poor  woman,  and  the 
tinkling  cottage  piano  with  the  plaited 
faded-green  front  represents  the  chops  and 
many  other  wholesome  things  she  has  not 
eaten,  and  what  she  allows  the  young  lady 
in  third-floor  back,  who  takes  her  board 
out  in  piano  lessons,  is  a  serious  sacrifice. 
Now,  I  ask,  what  for  ? 

239 


The   Champagne   Stan  d ard 

Why  is  all  the  world  playing  an  unneces- 
sary piano  ? 

Marriage  has  a  fatal  effect  on  music.  For 
some  occult  reason  as  soon  as  a  girl  is 
married,  the  piano  —  the  grave  of  so  much 
money  and  time  —  retires  out  of  active  life, 
and  swathed  in  '*art  draperies,"  burdened 
by  vases,  cabinet  photographs  and  imitation 
"curios,"  serves  less  as  a  musical  instru- 
ment than  a  warning.  But  like  all  warnings 
it  passes  unheeded,  for  no  sooner  are  the 
next  generation's  legs  long  enough  to  dangle 
between  the  key-board  and  the  pedals,  than 
the  echoes  awaken  to  the  same  old  false 
notes  that  serve  no  purpose  unless  an  hour 
of  daily  martyrdom  over  a  tear-splashed 
key-board  is  an  excellent  preparation  for 
the  trials  of  life. 

Music,  as  it  is  taught,  is  not  so  much  a 
fine  art  as  a  bad  habit.  Alas,  we  have  got 
into  the  habit  of  learning  to  play  the  piano, 
and  the  bad  habit  of  playing  on  the  violin 
is  fatally  on  the  increase.  Seriously  now: 
why .?  Because  it  is  considered  both  uncul- 
tivated and  quite  unfashionable  not  to  be 
fond  of  music  or  to  pretend  to  be.  Why  ? 
The  answer,  ''All  we  like  sheep." 
240 


The  Plague   of  Music 


I  know  of  only  one  man  who  has  the 
courage  to  say  that  he  hates  music.  It  is 
his  misfortune,  not  his  fauh,  and  without 
doubt  there  is  something  wrong  about  his 
inner  ear.  Still,  I  always  wonder  why  his 
frank  and  honest  confession  is  received  with 
a  kind  of  pitying  contempt,  as  if  he  had 
writ  himself  down  to  be  both  a  brute-beast 
and  a  heathen. 

Love  music,  and  for  some  unexplained 
reason  you  at  once  have  a  profound  scorn 
for  all  such  as  do  not.  My  friend  who 
hates  music  understands  and  loves  both 
pictures  and  poetry,  and,  goodness  knows, 
there  are  plenty  who  do  not!  And  yet  I 
have  never  heard  him  inveigh  against  those 
who  love  neither.  Yes,  music  may  be  a 
divine  art,  but  it  is  certainly  not  a  charitable 
art. 

Even  as  long  as  one  can  remember,  the 
study  of  music  and  the  making  of  musical 
instruments  have  been  terribly  on  the  in- 
crease. Mediocrity,  that  might  do  excellent 
work  in  other  fields,  strums  away  at  the 
piano  or  scratches  away  at  the  violin,  or 
with  quavering  voice  sings  those  songs 
which  have  inspired  the  poet  to  write: 
241 


The   Champagne   Standard 

I  am  saddest  when  I  sing, 
And  so  are  those  who  hear  me! 

The  world  is  full  of  music  schools,  that 
turn  out  thousands  of  young  musicians 
every  year,  who  take  to  music  instead  of 
dressmaking  or  plumbing  or  any  other  use- 
ful employment,  and  these  are  let  loose  on  a 
foolish  world  and  proceed  in  turn  to  make 
martyrs  of  the  defenceless  infants  of  our 
land.  And  it  is  curious,  too,  and  instruc- 
tive to  observe,  considering  the  vast  sums 
of  money  and  the  amount  of  time  spent  in 
the  pursuit  of  music,  how  rarely  one  can 
find  any  one  who  plays  or  sings  well  enough 
to  give  even  a  little  pleasure. 

The  possible  reason  may  be  that  the 
standard  of  mediocrity  has  become  so 
terribly  high!  For  the  halting  amateur  of 
to-day  might  have  served  as  a  Paderewski 
of  the  past.  Our  ears  have  grown  hopelessly 
fastidious. 

No  more  is  the  afternoon  caller  regaled 
with  The  Happy  Farmer,  as  performed  by 
the  talented  child  of  the  house,  and  listened 
to  with  real  pleasure  by  unsophisticated 
grandparents.  We  know  too  much  to  listen 
to  the  talented  child,  and  as  for  the  talented 
242 


The  Plague   of  Music 


child  it  generally  developes  into  a  young 
person  who  has  nervous  prostration  at  the 
mere  idea  of  playing  before  anyone.  For 
what  purpose,  then,  these  hours  of  five- 
finger  agony  and  those  enormous  bills  which 
might  have  been  paid  for  so  much  better 
results  ? 

Then,  too,  consider  the  awful  competition 
to  which  the  present  votary  of  music  is 
subjected  —  pitted,  as  it  were,  against  the 
pianola,  the  ^olian,  the  gramophone,  and 
the  other  countless  mechanical  devices, 
which  so  successfully  prove  that  human 
ingenuity  can  create  everything  but  a  soul. 
Wet  blankets  they  are  to  all  musical  aspira- 
tion, for  what  musical  aspiration  can  suc- 
cessfully compete  against  steel  fingers  with- 
out nerves  ? 

I  do  not  think  one  would  feel  so  acutely 
about  the  matter  if  music  were  a  silent  art, 
and  if  it  did  not  represent  such  a  waste  of 
money  and  energy  which,  turned  to  other 
uses,  might  have  been  of  such  value. 

Let  us  have  the  courage  to  say,  when  it 

is  the  truth,  that  we  dislike  music.     It  is 

nothing  to  boast  of,  but  neither  is  it  a  crime 

nor   a   disgrace.     If  your   blessed   Sammy 

243 


The   Champagne   St  and  ard 

bedews  the  piano  keys  with  tears  of  anguish, 
and  if,  after  a  time,  you  discover  that  his 
soul  is  not  amenable  to  the  poetry  of  sound, 
then  earn  the  fervid  gratitude  of  your 
neighbour  on  the  other  side  of  that  jerry- 
buik  wall,  and  release  the  young  sufferer. 
Be  merciful! 


244 


A  Domestic  Danger 


THERE  are  certain  times  of  the 
year  when  the  shops,  the  acute 
arbiters  of  fashion,  send  broad- 
cast those  entrancing  picture-books 
which  advise  the  wavering  woman  what  to 
buy,  what  to  wear,  and  how  to  wear  it;  and 
every  year  the  lovely  creatures  portrayed 
grow  more  lovely.  Once  my  dream  was  to 
be  a  queen  in  a  black  velvet  garment,  that 
hid  my  pinafore,  and  a  spiky  crown — the 
kind  as  old  as  fairy  stories.  While  waiting 
for  the  real  article  I  practised  with  a  bed 
sheet  and  crowned  myself  with  a  brass 
jardiniere  that  leaked,  but  was  very  impos- 
ing, though  upside  down.  I  have  had  other 
aspirations  since,  and  my  very  last  has  just 
come  by  a  discontented  postman  because 
it  would  not  go  into  the  letter-box. 

One  goes  through  all  stages  of  dreams 
until  one  comes  to  the  conclusion,  but  that 
is  always  very  late  in  life,  that  one  must 
resign  oneself  to  the  inevitable;  even  science 
cannot  turn  one's  nose  down,  when  nature 
245 


The   Champagne   Standard 

has  turned  it  up,  and  no  longing  for  five 
feet  ten  will  help  one  whom  nature  has 
finished  off  at  five  feet  two,  though  shops 
have  been  known  to  succeed  where  nature 
and  science  have  failed,  and  it  is  owing 
mainly  to  them  that  this  is  the  age  of  tall 
women.  Why  the  men  do  not  keep  pace 
is  partly  a  physiological  riddle  and  partly 
because  the  shops  are  not  interested  in  mere 
men.  But  it  is  a  common  sight  these  days 
to  see  a  great  blonde  goddess  with  gigantic 
feet  and  hands,  which  she  takes  no  trouble 
to  conceal,  having  in  tow  a  little  man  just 
tall  enough  to  tickle  her  shoulder  with  his 
moustache.  It  is  perhaps  a  merciful  dis- 
pensation of  Divine  Providence  that  ex- 
tremes not  only  meet,  but  evidently  like 
to  meet. 

Yes,  one's  ideals  in  the  process  of  living 
change.  However,  one  feels  convinced  that 
the  feminine  ideal  is  always  connected  with 
clothes,  and  whatever  the  Venus  of  Milo 
may  be  to  men  I  am  quite  sure  that  with 
her  generous  waist  and  rudimentary  costume 
she  has  never  been  the  ideal  of  a  feminine 
dreamer.  It  is  not  so  much  the  impropriety 
of  having  on  few  clothes  that  disturbs  the 
246 


A   Domesti  c  Danger 


female  mind  as  it  is  the  having  on  no  real 
nice  clothes.  The  old  ideals  are  getting  so 
dreadfully  old-fashioned!  A  Greek  goddess 
at  an  afternoon  tea  would  have  nothing  in 
common  with  the  new  ideal  but  her  height; 
her  ample  waist  and  her  heroic  simplicity 
would  be  out  of  it  in  an  age  which  is  trying 
to  live  up  to  the  new  standard  of  beauty 
as  set  by  those  infallible  connoisseurs — the 
dry-goods  stores.  The  enchanting  books 
which  these  send  out  at  the  beginning  of 
each  season  represent  as  nothing  else  the 
world's  ideal  of  perfect  feminine  beauty.  I 
will  not  discuss  men's  beauty,  because  a 
more  gifted  pen  than  mine  has  been  at  quite 
unnecessary  pains  to  increase  their  already 
alarming  vanity.  But  I  must  confess  that 
now  my  own  standard  of  womanly  loveli- 
ness veers  like  a  weather-  ock  to  the  wind, 
as  I  study  the  pictorial  production  commer- 
cial generosity  stuffs  into  my  letter-box. 
Once  I  wanted  to  be  a  queen  with  a  real 
crown,  now  I  want  to  be  just  like  the  beaute- 
ous creature  on  that  paper  cover. 

Once  I  thought  to  be  perfectly  beautiful 
was   to    be    broad    at   the    shoulders    and 
pinched  at  the  knees;  then  it  was  the  other 
247 


The   Ch  ampa gne  Stand ard 

way  about.  Finally  I  was  educated  — 
literature  helped  the  delusion  —  to  think 
that  to  be  acceptable  one  had  to  be  a  tiny 
thing  stopping  just  where  "  his "  manly  heart 
throbbed.  I  have  seen  shopworn  feminine 
articles  left  over  from  that  bygone  season, 
and  how  ridiculous  they  do  look! 

I  am  sorry  these  days  for  a  short  girl,  for 
the  man  with  the  throbbing  heart  is  always 
on  the  look-out  for  a  young  giantess,  into 
whose  lovely  eyes  he  can  only  gaze  by 
standing  on  a  step-ladder. 

Yes,  I  really  want  to  look  just  Uke  that 
enchanting  creature  who  gazes  at  me  from 
the  book  Mr.  Whiteley,  in  his  subtle  study 
of  my  weak  mind,  sent  me  yesterday.  Who 
is  the  divine  original  ?  Apart  from  wearing 
such  beautiful  clothes,  what  has  she  done 
to  be  so  perfectly  lovely?  She  cannot  be 
less  than  seven  feet  tall,  and  crowned  by  a 
dream  of  a  hat.  Her  eyes  are  so  big  and 
brown  and  trustful,  and  her  mouth  is  the 
traditional  rosebud,  while  her  nose  —  a 
feature  to  which  in  real  life  nature  is  usually 
most  unkind  —  is  so  small  that  fashions  for 
pocket-handkerchiefs  must  soon  go  out. 
Her  shoulders  are  so  broad,  and  yet  her 
248 


A   Domestic   Danger 


waist  is  so  attenuated,  that  I  wonder  if  — 
well  —  if  she  has  any  organs,  or  does  she 
rise  superior  to  organs  ?  I  ask  in  the  spirit 
of  serious  inquiry,  for  I  should  not  like  to 
be  misunderstood.  And  then  when  it  comes 
to  that  which  society,  in  its  exquisite  pro- 
priety, blushes  to  mention,  I  do  believe 
that  under  those  frilly  petticoats.  Nature, 
ever  considerate  and  bountiful  to  her,  has 
provided  her  with  telescopic  stilts,  and  not 
the  other  thing.  At  least  that  is  the  only 
explanation  I  have  ever  found  for  her 
divine  length!  So  what  wonder  if  one  sits 
at  one's  dressmaker's  day  in  and  day  out, 
while  that  patient  woman  produces  volume 
after  volume  representing  perfect  beauty 
combined  with  perfect  taste,  that  the 
average  woman  is  crushed  at  the  impos- 
sibility of  reaching  such  a  standard  of  per- 
fection ? 

If  I  were  a  man,  my  only  aim  in  life 
would  be  to  find  the  original  of  that  superb 
creature,  and  lay  at  her  feet  my  heart,  my 
life  and  my  purse.  The  last  is  very  neces- 
sary, for  she  needs  all  those  innumerable  and 
fascinating  things  with  which  Mr.  Whiteley, 
Mr.  Harrod,  Mr.  Barker,  and  all  the  rest  of 
249 


The   Champagne   Standard 

those  well-meaning  but  cruel  tempters  fill 
up  the  pages  of  their  catalogues.  These 
catalogues  are  really  a  biography  in  pictures, 
in  which  the  beautiful  She  is  shown  to  the 
world  from  the  most  intimate  undress  up, 
and  in  every  phase  she  is  lovely  and  digni- 
fied. Her  perfect  propriety  in  "combina- 
tions"—  for  which  occasion  she  evidently 
discards  stilts!  —  her  svelte  and  sinuous 
grace  in  corsets,  while  in  petticoats  one 
hardly  knows  which  to  admire  most,  her 
frills  or  her  bland  unconsciousness,  and  as 
for  her  dresses,  from  the  one  in  which  she  is 
thrillingly  pictured  as  pouring  out  a  slow  cup 
of  coffee,  she  cannot  fail  to  arouse  in  each 
the  jealousy  of  the  most  generous  of  her  sex. 
Her  characteristics  are  always  dignity, 
vacancy,  and  a  smile  not  always  appropriate 
to  the  occasion,  I  am  free  to  confess,  for  I 
have  seen  her  smile,  by  mistake  of  course, 
in  the  heaviest  of  widow's  weeds.  But  per- 
haps that  was  because  her  head  is  always 
supremely  unconscious  of  what  the  rest  of 
her  is  doing.  It  is  the  unconsciousness  of  a 
great  artist  who  is  attending  strictly  to  busi- 
ness; for  she  has  not  even  a  touch  of  vulgar 
feminine  coquetry. 

250 


A   Domestt  c   Danger 


If  she  fascinates  the  weak-minded  man 
who  idly  turns  the  leaves  of  the  fashion- 
book,  it  is  in  spite  of  herself.  When  she 
stands  confessed  in,  say,  corsets  —  an  atti- 
tude which  must  be  trying  in  the  cold  eye 
of  the  pubfic  —  she  does  not  look  embar- 
rassed, she  only  looks  dignified.  She  is,  in 
fact,  the  direct  modern  descendant  of  the 
Vestal  Virgins  who  sacrificed  their  beauty 
to  religion,  only  she  sacrifices  her  beauty  to 
business.  The  comfort  for  a  tired  man 
to  come  home  to  her  placid,  well-dressed 
society!  That  she  never  loses  her  temper 
her  exquisitely  dressed  head  amply  proves, 
for  you  can't  lose  your  temper  and  preserve 
the  serenity  of  your  back  hair!  The  rap- 
ture of  a  man  and  a  father  to  come  home 
to  his  perfectly  dressed,  silent  infant  which 
smiles  sweetly  from  the  latest  thing  in  lace 
cribs,  while  She  bends  over  him  in  a  toilette 
which  expresses  as  nothing  else  can  maternal 
solicitude  combined  with  perfect  taste. 

Then  to  see  her  play  tennis,  unflushed, 
unruffled,  with  her  adorable  hair  still  intact; 
skipping  with  such  ladylike  activity,  and 
always  smiling.  What  rapture  for  a  loving 
man!  The  delight  of  golfing  with  her  and 
251 


The   Champagne   Standard 

her  numerous  sisters  —  such  a  family  re- 
semblance!—  unexcited,  ladylike,  the  linen 
collar  about  her  swan  like  throat  never 
wilted,  but  a  monument  to  some  celestial 
laundress,  and  delivering  her  strokes  into 
the  landscape  with  that  inconsequential 
feebleness  which  men  love,  say  what  they 
will. 

Then,  too,  to  see  her  Hstening,  in  full 
dress,  to  the  touching  strains  of  the  pianola, 
as  performed  by  a  soul-inspired  being  in 
the  last  thing  in  party  frocks  and  a  flower- 
crowned  coifjurey  is  a  study  of  controlled 
emotion.  She  is  moved,  but  too  much 
emotion  might  ruffle  what  the  poetry  of 
commerce  has  so  sweetly  named  her  "trans- 
formation." So  she  controls  her  feelings, 
and  looks  with  calm  and  thoughtful  eyes 
at  the  back  of  the  "artiste's"  marvellous 
toilette,  and  possibly  wonders,  to  the  strains 
of  the  "Largo"  of  Handel,  how  she  got 
into  her  "creation."  But  that  is  a  dead 
and  awful  secret  only  known  to  Mr.  Harrod 
or  possibly  to  Messrs.  Derry  and  Toms. 

How  many  a  time  have  I  watched  her  in 
a  paper-garden-party  mingling  with  other 
lovely  beings  of  her  own  sex,  for  her  sense 
252 


A   Domestic  Danger 


of  propriety  never  allows  her  to  mingle  with 
those  gallant  gentlemen  in  frock-coats  and 
evening  dress  we  admire  in  the  tailors'  win- 
dows. The  landscape  is — if  I  may  say  so  — 
of  a  most  ladylike  nature.  Mud  is  absent, 
for  the  fair  beings  meander  about  in  a  land- 
scape which  nature  has  apparently  cleaned 
with  a  tooth-brush.  I  suppose  their  need 
for  amusement  is  amply  satisfied  with  star- 
ing at  their  lovely  sisters  or  offering  them 
fans  or  bouquets  —  for  I  have  rarely  seen 
them  do  anything  else,  though  once  the 
artist  who  portrayed  them  became  dramatic, 
and  introduced  two  young  things  of  their 
kind  playing  at  battledore  and  shuttlecock 
in  the  background. 

The  greatest  innovation  was  when  She 
was  pictured  as  pouring  tea  in  a  baronial 
hall.  The  exquisite  grace  with  which  she 
"poured"  was  a  lesson,  though  I  had  a 
terrible  doubt  as  to  whether  there  was  any- 
thing in  that  perfect  teapot.  She  wore  a 
tea-gown  which  was  the  last  "cry"  in  fluffi- 
ness,  and  the  friends  about  her  were  gor- 
geous, in  attitudes  which  did  more  justice 
to  their  toilettes  than  their  manners,  for  the 
way  they  turned  their  flat  backs  on  each 
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The   Champagne   Standard 

Other  might,  in  other  society,  have  given 
offence.  Another  innovation  in  the  picture 
was  a  perfect  footman,  a  perfect  page-boy, 
and  a  perfect  butler,  a  noble  being  like  an 
Archbishop,  but  much  more  serious.  It  was 
well  that  no  other  mere  man  was  present 
even  on  paper,  for  the  combination  of  loveli- 
ness was  overpowering. 

Ah,  yes,  indeed,  if  the  usual  run  of  mothers 
and  wives  were  like  these,  then  would  there 
need  to  be  no  outcry  against  the  selfish 
bachelor  who  refuses  to  marry.  Instead, 
the  bachelor  in  his  five  hundred  horse-power 
motor,  defying  speed  limit,  palpitating  with 
eagerness,  would  fly  to  lay  himself  at  her 
exquisitely  shod  feet.  For  what  does  man 
care  for  beauty  unadorned!  As  for  intel- 
lect, well,  intellect  has  never  been  in  it! 

I  am  quite  sure  that  neither  Mr.  Whiteley, 
nor  Mr.  Harrod,  nor  the  rest  of  the  public- 
spirited  gentlemen,  whose  only  object  in 
life  is  to  make  us  beautiful,  know  what 
harm  they  are  doing;  or  why  do  they  portray 
a  race  of  women  to  whose  perfections  mortal 
women  must  ever  vainly  aspire. 

Your  lovely  syrens  with  their  divine  legs 
—  there,  the  awful  word  is  out!  —  never 
254 


A   Domestic   Danger 


go  shopping  through  the  mud  in  the  early 
morning!  When  they  wear  a  dress  it  is 
called  a  "creation,"  and  it  is  certainly  not 
the  year  before  last's  best  in  reduced  circum- 
stances. When  they  lift  their  elegant  robes, 
and  show  their  sumptuous  frills,  it  proves 
that  they  know  nothing  of  the  depravity 
of  "model"  laundries.  Nor  do  I  for  a 
moment  believe  that  their  smiling  babies 
—  the  smile  inherited  from  their  mother, 
sweet,  but  slightly  vacant — know  the  ago- 
nies of  teeth,  nettle-rash  or  colic. 

In  fact,  I  refuse  to  believe  that  such 
perfect  loveliness  can  exist.  It  is  a  poet's 
dream,  evolved  by  those  worthy  gentlemen 
who  only  make  life  a  greater  trial  for  us  by 
sending  us  quarterly  reminders  of  what  we 
ought  to  be,  but  what  most  of  us  are  not. 
It  is  a  crime  to  introduce  into  the  bosom 
of  contented  families  such  presentments  of 
too  lovely  women.  Man  is  weak,  and  when 
the  wife  of  his  heart  comes  home  from  shop- 
ping with  her  hat  on  one  side,  by  accident, 
not  coquetry,  her  ostrich  plume  limp  and 
lank  from  a  battle  with  the  rain,  a  rent  for 
the  convenience  of  her  nose,  her  chaussures 
caked  with  mud  to  match  her  petticoats, 

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The    Champagne   St  and  ar  d 

and  on  her  face  an  expression  which  is  not 
bland  as  she  hears  shrieks  proclaiming 
colic,  how  can  he  help  but  make  sorrowful 
comparisons  with  a  vision  in  his  mind  of  a 
silent  infant  in  a  lace-smothered  crib  that 
smiles  at  him  from  Messrs.  Dickins  and 
Jones's  alluring  book? 

Then  is  the  harm  done;  the  weak  father 
falls  a  victim  to  his  ideal,  and  his  heart 
turns  from  his  distracted,  bedraggled  wife 
to  that  lovely  vision  who  entered  a  happy 
home  through  the  innocent  letter-box  to  the 
eternal  destruction  of  its  domestic  peace. 
Thus  "home,"  once  the  bulwark  of  the 
British  nation,  is  rapidly  becoming  a  mere 
mockery. 

I  ask,  in  the  interest  of  society,  why  can- 
not the  lovely  beings  in  the  fashion-papers 
and  fashion-books  be  made  less  lovely  ? 
Whatever  you  are,  and  I  commend  this 
sentiment  to  all,  as  well  as  to  distinguished 
haberdashers,  be  truthful.  Be  truthful! 
Chop  off  at  least  one  foot  and  eight  inches 
from  those  lovely  ones  who  imperil  our 
peace.  Be  realists  at  least  occasionally; 
portray  them  with  a  rip,  or  a  skirt  which  is 
short  where  it  should  be  long;  let  their  hair 
256 


A   Domestic  Danger 


be  out  of  curl,  and  buttons  off  their  boots  — 
anything,  only  to  prove  that  they  also  are 
human. 

The  postman  has  just  brought  another 
big,  square,  flat  familiar  parcel.  I  shall 
destroy  it;  it  is  too  entrancing.  It  portrays 
Her  in  a  golden  coiffure  crowned  by  a  hat 
that  breathes  of  spring.  Clad  in  a  perfect 
and  appropriate  "creation"  she  has  climbed 
into  an  apple-tree,  to  which  she  clings  with 
white  gloved  hands.  Playfully  and  yet  with 
perfect  propriety  she  peeps  through  the  clus- 
tering pink  blossoms.  It  is  the  same  smile, 
the  same  irreproachable  nose,  the  same  wave 
to  her  golden  hair,  the  same  great  eyes. 
Now  to  put  this  vision  of  beauty  and  grace 
high  up  in  a  tree  unflushed,  unscratched, 
unruffled,  untorn,  is  really  too  much  to 
bear  —  besides,  it  is  false  to  nature!  The 
head  of  the  house  shall  not  look  at  her  and 
make  cruel  comparisons,  and  decide  in  his 
ignorant  masculine  mind  that  all  women 
can  look  so  after  they  have  climbed  a  tree. 
Then  grow  discontented  when  one  tries  to 
explain  to  him  that  they  cannot.  So  then, 
before  it  is  too  late,  here  goes  —  into  the 
fire!  One  domestic  peace  at  least  is  saved. 
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The   Champagne   Stand ard 

Now  I  ask  Mr.  Whiteley,  Mr.  Harrod, 
Mr.  Robinson,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  gentle- 
men who  stand  for  all  that  is  best  in  the 
way  of  hats  and  clothes  and  things,  and  to 
whose  benevolent  guidance  we  women  trust 
ourselves,  be  merciful  as  well  as  truthful, 
we  beg,  and  do  not  make  those  beautiful 
creatures  quite  so  beautiful! 

It  is  the  new  invasion,  compared  to  which 
the  possible  arrival  of  hordes  of  worthy 
yellow  men  is  as  nothing.  The  invasion, 
think,  of  too  beautiful  ideals  into  hitherto 
contented  homes!  Mr.  Whiteley,  you  who 
have  always  provided  everything,  start  a 
new  branch, — give  us  peace!  Head  a 
great  movement  which  shall  have  as  object 
to  portray  the  fashions  by  less  bewildering 
beauty.  Earn  what  has  probably  no  com- 
mercial value,  and  that  is  our  gratitude! 
Remember  that  we  are  not  only  women 
but  customers. 

Now  supposing  all  your  customers  should 
revolt  ?    What  then  ? 


258 


A  Study  of  Frivolity 


AFTER  studying  the  veracious  and 
thrilling  works  of  our  modern 
dramatists,  one  comes  to  the  con- 
clusion that  the  lady  with  a  past, 
though  she  may  suffer  from  nothing  else, 
does  suffer  tortures  from  tight  boots.  What- 
ever situation  they  put  her  in,  however 
harrowing,  pathetic  or  revolting,  when  boots 
would  seem  to  be  the  last  consideration  of 
a  tortured  conscience,  yet  hers  have  that 
exquisite,  brand-new  perfection  which  proves 
that,  when  she  is  not  planning  wickedness 
nor  torn  by  remorse,  she  spends  the  rest  of 
her  time  buying  boots,  and  we  all  know  that 
new  boots  hurt  rather  more  than  a  bad 
conscience. 

It  is  also  the  happy  destiny  of  this  lady 
to  wear  the  most  superlatively  beautiful 
clothes,  and  when,  in  moments  of  guilty 
emotion,  she  swishes  her  train  about,  we 
have  a  vision  of  petticoats  which  only  she, 
indifferent  to  the  voice  of  conscience  and 
laundry  charges,  dares  to  wear;  and  still 

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The   Champagne   Standard 

more  damning  witness  than  her  petticoats 
to  her  evil  conscience  is  the  elegance  of  her 
feet.  Your  real  hardened  adventuress  on 
the  stage  aWays  wears  the  most  delicious 
slippers,  no  matter  how  inappropriate  to  the 
occasion,  but  she  wears  them  prophetically 
as  it  were,  for  she  alone  knows  that  she  is 
destined  to  die  in  the  fifth  act,  with  her 
feet  to  the  footlights. 

To  the  social  philosopher  there  is  no 
more  interesting  sight  than  the  window  of 
a  fashionable  shoemaker's,  there  to  make 
mental  notes  of  the  destiny  of  all  those 
charming  little  shoes  and  slippers  that 
confront  one  in  all  the  coquetry  of  com- 
merce. The  only  thing  needed  is  a  band 
to  make  them  frisk  about  in  all  their  gold, 
white,  scarlet  and  bronze  frivolity.  The 
sophisticated  curve  of  the  satin  heel  and 
the  tiny  pointed  satin  toe  are  still  inno- 
cent of  worldly  knowledge.  Care,  even  in 
the  shape  of  the  daintiest  foot,  has  not 
touched  them  yet,  they  have  not  been 
danced  in,  nor  kicked  off,  nor  made  love 
to;  in  fact,  they  have  not  been  born. 

There  is,  however,  a  destiny  for  sHppers 
as  well  as  other  things,  and  there  is  a  certain 
260 


A    Study    of  Frivolity 


slipper,  long  and  slender,  with  arched  instep 
and  Louis  XV  heel  which,  so  instinct  tells 
us,  is  inevitably  destined  to  belong  to  a  lady 
with  a  past.  Virtue  never  wears  anything 
so  subtle  nor  so  pretty,  for,  indeed,  it  is 
only  conscious  rectitude  that  dares  to  dis- 
pense with  coquetry,  and  wears  her  boots 
boldly  down  at  the  heel. 

Given  a  woman's  shoe,  and  one  can  easily 
evolve  out  of  it  her  entire  emotional  history, 
just  as  a  naturahst  reconstructs  from  a 
bone  the  entire  animal  to  which  it  once 
belonged.  Not  long  ago  I  saw  a  famous 
German  actress  as  Beata  in  Sudermann's 
play  **The  Joy  of  Living."  It  is  a  fine 
melodramatic  part.  She  has  a  lover  and  a 
husband  —  f amiUar  combination  —  but  the 
sin  is  in  the  past,  and  they  have  all  three 
reached  that  comfortable  middle  age  when 
people  are  supposed  to  know  better. 

Unfortunately  at  the  eleventh  hour  the 
husband  discovers  the  secret  of  his  wife's  old 
faithlessness  and  his  best  friend's  treachery. 
At  a  dinner  in  the  last  act  Beata  drinks  a 
toast  to  "The  Joy  of  Living,"  and  promptly 
solves  the  riddle  of  existence  by  staggering 
into  the  next  room  and  poisoning  herself. 
261 


The    Champagne   Standard 

It  was  as  she  staggered  away  that  the 
German  actress  deprived  me  of  all  my 
illusions  for,  as  she  lifted  her  dress  rather 
high  in  her  anguish,  she  exhibited  a  pair 
of  broad,  flat  boots,  with  patent  leather 
tips,  and  the  kind  of  heels  only  virtue 
wears,  broad  and  flat  and  low.  I  thought 
I  saw  side  elastics,  but  that  may  have  been 
the  effect  of  a  perturbed  vision. 

However,  from  that  moment  I  lost  all  be- 
lief in  Beata's  trials.  A  woman  with  such 
boots  never  takes  her  own  life,  never  has 
a  lover,  never  has  a  past,  but  she  has  a 
good  sensible  husband  who  falls  asleep  after 
dinner,  and  while  he  snores  she  knits  him 
golf  stockings.  The  audience  was  under  the 
impression  that  Beata  had  killed  herself  in 
the  next  room,  but  I  knew  better.  No,  those 
feet  were  not  made  for  tragedy,  even  Suder- 
mann's  art  could  not  convince  me,  and  so 
a  pair  of  German  boots  spoiled  my  illu- 
sions. 

It  is  not  often  that  we  poor  philistines 
have  the  privilege  of  studying  at  close 
range  the  lady  who  may  be  truly  described 
as  the  pet  of  the  stage,  and  when  we  do  so 
we  owe  it  entirely  to  our  kind  dramatists; 
262 


A   Study   oj  Frivolity 


and  find  however  much  she  and  her  sisters 
may  differ  in  the  details  of  their  interesting 
careers,  they  have  in  common  the  trans- 
cendent charms  of  their  toilettes  and  the 
fascination  of  their  shppers. 

When  one  sees  how  uninteresting  the 
play  would  be  without  her,  how  often  virtue 
is  rather  fatiguing  and  not  nearly  so  well 
dressed,  and  how  the  dramatist  gives  his 
favourite  the  most  interesting  talk  and  the 
most  dramatic  situations,  one  realises  her 
importance,  and  that  she  is  quite  indispens- 
able to  the  stage,  whatever  she  is  in  real 
life.  One  only  regrets,  when  society  is  a 
little  fatiguing,  that  she  is  not  occasionally 
permitted  to  pass  through  in  her  gorgeous 
toilette  and  her  immoral  slippers,  and  that 
bewitching  side  glance  which  one  only  sees 
on  the  stage,  just  to  make  society,  like  the 
stage,  a  little  more  thrilling. 

Now  in  the  days  of  the  older  dramatists 
when  much  was  left  to  what  in  this  material 
age  is  fast  dying  out,  that  is  the  imagina- 
tion, if  the  dungeon  of  Lord  de  Smyth  was 
wanted,  the  scene-painter  nailed  up  a  sign- 
post with  the  simple  notice,  **This  is  the 
Dungeon  of  Lord  de  Smyth,"  and  the 
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The   Champagne   Standard 

audience  were  as  much  thrilled  as  if  they 
could  hear  the  clanking  of  the  fetters. 

In  these  days  we  refuse  to  take  our  dun- 
geons so  absolutely  on  faith,  and,  still,  if 
we  see  a  too  beautiful  creature  in  red  hair 
(fascinating  crime  always  has  red  hair), 
gorgeous  clothes,  and  slippers  with  Louis 
XV  heels — that  estimable  monarch  was  re- 
sponsible for  so  much  sinfulness  combined 
with  singular  good  taste  —  and  an  opera 
cloak  all  lace  and  allurement,  the  kind  for 
which  virtue  has  neither  the  money  nor  the 
taste,  then  we  can  settle  down  to  a  good 
three  hours'  thrill,  for  those  perfect  gar- 
ments are  as  much  an  indication  of  the 
dramatist's  intentions  as  in  less  sophisti- 
cated days  the  sign-post  which  announced 
the  dungeon  of  the  de  Smyths. 

We  have  learnt  by  experience  that  cer- 
tain kinds  of  clothes  always  come  to  a  bad 
end,  though  never  until  the  fifth  act;  while 
virtue,  without  any  nice  clothes  to  comfort 
her,  has  a  very  bad  time  for  at  least  four 
acts  and  a  half.  One  could  wish  the  dram- 
atists would  give  virtue  a  better  chance! 

A  very  charming  woman  regretfully  con- 
fessed to  me  that  the  old  proverb,  that 
264 


A    Study   of  Frivolity 


virtue  is  its  own  reward,  is  distinctly  dis- 
couraging. She  felt,  with  a  perfectly  blame- 
less existence  behind  her,  that  she  had  a 
right  to  demand  of  fate  jewels  more  pre- 
cious than  imitation  pearls,  and  a  mode  of 
transit  more  patrician  than  a  'bus  or  the 
"tube,"  or  a  four-wheeler  on  state  occa- 
sions. Her  bitterness  was  enhanced  by  a 
picture  in  the  "tube-lift"  of  a  lovely  crea- 
ture ablaze  with  diamonds,  who  advertises 
a  firm  of  philanthropists  from  whom  one 
can  get  one's  Koh-i-noors  on  the  instal- 
ment plan. 

If  ever  a  young  person  looks  as  if  she  had 
had  a  chequered  past,  it  is  this  young  per- 
son, so  radiant,  so  self-satisfied,  and  so 
prosperous.  She  is  a  painful  satire  on  vir- 
tue in  a  mackintosh  with  a  dripping  um- 
brella, who  has  no  earthly  hope  of  diamonds, 
no  matter  how  she  may  long  for  them,  and 
who  stares  drearily  at  the  lovely  being  until 
she  is  bounced  out  upon  terra  firma,  and 
then  pushed  into  the  rain  by  other  virtues 
with  umbrellas  and  very  sharp  elbows.  The 
charming  woman  further  declared  that  vir- 
tue should  be  offered  a  more  substantial  re- 
ward than  imitation  pearls  these  days  when 
265 


The   Champagne  Stand ard 

the  shoemakers,  dressmakers  and  dramatists 
form  a  ** combine'*  for  the  exclusive  glori- 
fication of  the  lady  in  question. 

But  it  is  not  only  the  eloquence  of  slip- 
pers, but  the  eloquence  of  petticoats!  Are 
not  our  shop  windows  the  Frenchiest  of 
French  novels,  divided  not  into  chapters, 
but  into  petticoats?  Do  they  not  form 
flamboyant  rainbows  behind  those  glitter- 
ing plate-glass  fronts?  That  there  is  no 
one  inside  of  them  takes  nothing  away 
from  their  charm.  To  see  them  out- 
.spread  against  a  window  —  a  bewildering 
chaos  of  colours,  frilly,  fluffy  and  fantastic, 
is  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  an  in- 
articulate poet  who  lives  sonnets  in  silk 
without  putting  them  on  paper.  How 
much  more  satisfactory  to  live  poems  than 
merely  to  write  them! 

So  every  shop  window  proclaims  that  this 
is  the  age  of  petticoats.  Who  buys  them, 
who  wears  them  ?  Why  are  they  never  seen 
again  ?  Yet  well  may  we  ask  what  sylph 
can  worthily  wear  those  coquettish  fanta- 
sies ?  It  must  be  conceded,  though  it  will 
hurt  out  national  pride,  that  only  the  women 
of  one  nation  have  that  sovereign  right. 
266 


A   Study   of  Frivolity 


It  is  the  Frenchwoman  alone  who  can 
lift  her  skirts  with  that  supreme  elegance 
which  turns  even  the  worst  mud  puddle 
into  an  instrument  for  the  display  of  her 
exquisite  grace.  She  is  the  artist  of  the 
petticoat  —  and  if  she  lifts  her  skirts  rather 
high,  it  is  because  she  does  not  feel  it  her 
duty  to  help  the  County  Council  to  sweep 
the  streets  with  the  tail  of  a  draggled  gown. 

Now  when  an  English  woman  lifts  her 
skirt,  she  does  it  as  one  on  business  bent; 
coquetry  is  not  in  it.  She  makes  a  frantic 
clutch  at  the  back  of  her  skirt,  grabs  a 
solid  handful,  and  drags  it  uncompromis- 
ingly forward  until  she  outlines  herself 
with  simple,  cruel  distinctness.  Her  sil- 
houette is  a  curious  study  in  angles. 

Though  she  has  no  coquetry  about  her 
feet  or  her  petticoats,  the  fatality  of  fate 
ordains  that  she  should  always  wear  high- 
heeled  slippers  and  cobweb  stockings  in  that 
downpour  which  Divine  Providence  re- 
serves exclusively  for  the  English  nation. 
This  opportunity  she  also  takes  to  wear 
those  lace  petticoats  which,  having  survived 
the  terrors  of  the  British  laundry,  succumb 
to  British  mud.  Heaven,  in  its  inscrutable 
267 


The   Champagne   Stand ard 

wisdom,  has  denied  to  the  Anglo-Saxons  and 
Teutons  that  subtle  turn  of  the  wrist  which 
makes  the  hfting  of  a  skirt  a  fine  art.  Even 
the  American  woman,  conqueror  though  she 
be  of  dukes  and  lesser  things,  has  never  yet 
conquered   that   Latin  grace. 

Now  who  buys  those  silken  rainbows  in 
the  shops  ?  Get  the  sphinx  to  answer  that 
riddle  if  you  can.  Do  they  vanish  into 
space,  or  are  they  bought  by  those  radiant 
beings  who  flit  about  in  electric  landaulettes, 
and  whom  we  never  meet,  because  we  flit 
about  in  'buses  ? 

If  the  rainbow  ever  touches  earth  it  is  on 
exceptional  occasions  which  only  prove  the 
rule.  And  it  is  always  when  virtue,  always 
elderly  and  stout,  with  big,  flat  feet  in  cloth 
boots,  lifts  her  skirt  and  exhibits  to  the  eye 
of  the  public  a  yellow  or  scarlet  silk  con- 
fection which  hangs  limp  and  dejected. 
Its  melancholy  flop  and  want  of  rustle 
plainly  show  its  consciousness  of  being 
misunderstood  and  in  a  false  position. 
The  irreproachable  petticoat,  sacred  to  the 
eminently  respectable,  is  usually  black  and 
of  a  material  of  the  nature  of  horsehair.  No 
shop  boasts  of  it,  and  it  is  always  pulled  out 
268 


A    Study   of  Frivolity 


of  an  ignoble  pile  when  required,  and  is 
quite  Spartan  in  its  unadorned   simplicity. 

That  virtue  is  best  adorned  by  itself  we 
concede;  still  virtue  is  a  little  handicapped. 
I  put  it  to  the  dramatists:  Why  not  give  her 
better  clothes  and  let  her  for  once  triumph 
in  the  second  act  ?  The  dramatists,  in- 
spired photographers  of  manners  though 
they  are,  have  a  great  deal  to  answer  for! 
At  best  they  give  her  a  white  dress,  a  blue 
sash,  ankle-ties  and  no  conversation.  One 
asks  how  is  she  to  compete  with  a  stately 
creature  with  dramatic  red  hair  and  that 
sinuous  and  glittering  costume  fraught  with 
tragic  situations  ?  What  a  fatal  contrast 
when  studied  by  the  youth  of  our  land  who 
have  been  taught  to  regard  the  stage  as  an 
educator! 

The  stage  is  conceded  to  be  a  great 
educational  and  moral  force,  and  yet  I 
beg  of  those  excellent  gentlemen  who  pro- 
vide the  lessons  that  the  stage  so  eloquently 
recites  not  to  lavish  on  the  lady  in  question 
that  bewildering  wardrobe  which  must  give 
her  a  sense  of  peace  and  calm  security  that 
even  a  good  conscience  cannot  bestow.  For 
once  put  her  into  a  bargain  coat  and  skirt 
269 


The   Champagne   Stand ard 

left  over  from  a  sale  at  Tooting,  adorn  her 
with  a  tarn  o'shanter,  the  kind  with  a  quill 
that  sticks  out  in  front,  and  put  on  her  feet 
the  boots  of  a  perfect  propriety,  always  short 
and  broad,  then  see  if  the  pit  will  adore  her! 

No,  the  pit  will  not  adore  her  at  all,  for 
say  what  you  will,  it  is  the  clothes  that  sway 
the  earnest  and  indiscriminating  lover  of 
the  drama.  For  once  put  virtue  in  a 
gossamer  peignoir,  the  clinging,  fascinating 
kind,  and  sHp  her  number  six  feet  into  a 
number  three  satin  slipper,  and  how  the 
pit  will  rise  at  her  as  one  man,  as  they  have 
never  done  before,  and  take  her  to  their 
hearts,  for  human  nature  is  as  yielding  as 
putty  to  grief  that  wears  nice  clothes  and  is 
well  scrubbed.  Unfortunately  the  world 
is  full  of  undramatic  tragedies  that  are  all 
the  more  tragic  because  of  a  dire  need  of 
soap  and  water. 

As  the  educator  of  a  public  swayed  by 
the  eloquence  of  a  slippper  and  moved  to 
tears  by  the  pathos  of  a  petticoat,  one  can 
but  beg  and  implore  our  dramatists,  even 
at  the  risk  of  making  their  dramas  less 
thrilling,  to  give  virtue  a  tiny  bit  of  a  chance 
— for  a  change. 

270 


On    Taking    Oneself  Seriously 

NEVER  has  mediocrity  been  so 
triumphantly  successful  as  now, 
and  that  is  the  reason  we  take 
ourselves  so  seriously.  Never 
before  has  it  attained  such  a  high  level  of 
excellence,  and  if,  for  that  reason,  we  miss 
those  grand  and  lonely  peaks  that  represent 
the  supreme  glory  of  the  past,  we  can  at 
least  cheer  ourselves  by  the  comfortable  re- 
flection that  we  are  each  a  glorious  little 
peak.  That  being  conceded  it  goes  without 
saying  that,  occupied  as  we  are  with  our- 
selves, we  really  have  too  much  to  do  to 
bother  about  the  greatness  of  our  friends. 
In  the  past  the  great  man  was  surrounded 
by  a  band  of  ardent  worshippers  who  circled 
about  him  and  trumpeted  forth  his  praise. 
In  these  degenerate  days  if  there  is  a  great 
man,  he  is  not  surrounded  by  satellites,  for 
the  satellites  are  practically  employed  cir- 
cling about  themselves.  So  the  great  man 
girds  up  his  loins  and  wisely  proclaims  his 
own  greatness. 

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The   Champagne   Standard 

Then,  too,  it  is  a  bother  to  chant  another 
man's  praises  if  you  are  quite  convinced, 
and  you  are  probably  right,  that  he  is  no 
greater  than  you  are,  so  you  abstain  from 
the  folly  of  it  and  devote  all  your  energies 
to  blowing  your  own  little  trumpet  with 
seraphic  vigour.  In  the  past  the  little  bands 
of  ardent  worshippers  were  quite  disin- 
terested, a  merit  to  which  the  occasional 
ardent  worshipper  of  the  present  cannot 
always  lay  claim.  Our  modern  attitude  is 
one  of  doubt,  and  so  when  we  hear  a  paean 
of  praise  we  close  one  eye  and  ask  "Why  ?" 
The  fact  is  we  decline  to  take  anyone  else 
seriously,  but  we  make  up  for  that  by  tak- 
ing ourselves  with  redoubled  seriousness.  In 
previous  ages  there  were  no  newspapers  who 
took  upon  themselves  the  role  of  Fame, 
poising  aloft  a  laurel  wreath  ready  to  drop 
it  on  the  head  of  the  best-advertised  genius. 
In  those  blissful  days,  so  little  appreciated 
now,  when  the  world  could  neither  read 
nor  write,  hero  worship  was  so  popular 
that  the  lauded  one  found  it  unnecessary 
to  take  himself  too  seriously,  for  others 
kindly  did  it  for  him. 

This  is  undoubtedly  an  age  of  emphasis 
272 


On    Taking   Oneself  Seriously 

and  capitals.  If  you  don't  see  the  capitals 
in  print  you  are  sure  to  see  them  in  the 
attitude.  Woman,  Millionaire,  Poet,  States- 
man, Composer,  Dramatist,  Novelist,  Artist 
—  to  mention  only  a  few  —  may  not  be 
spelled  with  a  capital,  but  one  never  has 
the  honour  of  meeting  any  of  these  worthy 
people  without  recognising  the  capital  in 
their  haughty  intercourse  with  their  fellow 
men. 

Possibly  it  even  permeates  the  lower 
strata  of  society,  but  one  can  only  judge  by 
the  experience  that  comes  in  one's  modest 
way.  The  gentlemen,  who  are  at  this 
moment  shovelling  in  our  winter  coal,  may 
take  themselves  seriously.  Possibly  the  one 
with  the  coal-sack  lightly  twined  across  his 
shoulders  has  his  own  opinion  as  to  the  su- 
perior way  in  which  he  shovels  the  coal  down 
the  hole.  It  is  more  than  probably  that  the 
plumber  who  came  this  morning  to  screw 
up  a  leaking  tap  takes  himself  seriously.  I 
think  he  does  for  he  left  a  small  boy  and 
his  tools  to  remind  me  of  him,  and  he  has 
proudly  retired  from  the  scene.  Still  I  really 
think  that  the  disorder  generally  attacks 
those  who  work  with  what  "the  reverend 
273 


The   Champagne   S tand ard 

gentleman  is  pleased  to  call  his  mind,"  and 
it  is  most  fatal  where,  besides  dollars  and 
cents,  the  sufferer  demands  the  tribute  of 
instant  applause. 

Supposing  the  greatest  singer  in  the 
world  were  to  sing  to  stolid  faces  and  dead 
silence  and  were  to  receive  no  applause  for 
two  or  three  years;  her  attitude  towards 
the  public  would  become  one  of  praise- 
worthy modesty.  It  is  this  frantic,  ill-con- 
sidered admiration  which  gives  the  good 
lady  such  a  mistaken  sense  of  her  own 
importance. 

If  the  last  work  of  the  last  great  mediocrity 
in  the  way  of  novelists  were  to  be  ignored, 
and  only  reviewed  a  couple  of  years  after 
its  publication,  many  an  estimable  gentle- 
man and  lady  would  step  down  from  their 
pedestal  and  walk  quite  modestly  on  a  level 
with  their  fellow  beings. 

If  the  poets  received  their  meed  of  praise 
long  after  they  were  nicely  buried  instead 
of  at  afternoon  teas,  they  would  write 
better,  indeed  they  would.  Weak  tea  praise 
has  never  been  good  for  the  mental  stamina, 
and  it  is  awfully  misleading.  Because  a 
gushing  thing  with  an  ardent  eye  protests 
274 


On    Taking   Oneself  S eriously 


over  a  tea-cup  that  your  poems  are  the  most 
beautiful  poems  she  has  ever  read,  it  is  not 
necessary  to  beUeve  her.  Do  not  on  the 
strength  of  that  go  home  and  snub  your 
old  mother  who,  to  her  sorrow,  has  been 
educated  to  believe  that  among  her  goslings 
she  has  hatched  a  swan.  Gosling  or  swan  in 
these  days  at  best  you  can  reach  no  higher 
altitude  than  to  be  called  a  minor  poet. 

One  wonders  who  was  the  first  reviewing 
misanthrope  who  called  the  modern  singers 
"minor  poets"?  Why  should  that  branch 
of  the  writing  Art  have  evoked  his  particu- 
lar animosity  ?  Do  we  say  minor  historian, 
minor  novelist,  minor  painter,  minor  com- 
poser ?  Why  should  we  belittle  an  artist 
who  may  be  infinitely  greater  than  all 
these,  and  damn  his  art  with  an  adjective  ? 
It  is  not  for  us  to  judge  if  a  poet  be 
minor  or  major.  That  is  usually  the  busi- 
ness of  the  future,  and  there  is  no  prophet 
among  us  able  to  prophesy  which  of  our 
poets  will  join  the  immortals.  Thank 
Heaven,  advertising  is  only  a  temporary 
product,  and  has  no  influence  on  immor- 
tality. 

The  misfortune  of  our  age  is  that  the 

275 


The   Champagne   Standard 

tools  for  the  divine  arts  have  became  so 
cheap  and  handy.  Literature,  especially,  is 
at  the  mercy  of  every  irresponsible  infant 
with  ambition  and  a  penny  to  spare.  Why, 
the  snub-nosed  board-school  youngster 
down  there  skipping  joyfully  along  the 
gutter  has  a  sheet  of  paper  and  a  lead-pencil, 
the  excellence  of  which  were  beyond  the 
imagination  of  Shakespeare.  It  is  this 
cheap  and  fatal  luxury  which  makes  such 
triumphant  mediocrity  and  so  Httle  great- 
ness, and  it  is  the  fault  of  the  newspapers, 
the  publishers,  too  much  education,  and 
afternoon  teas.  May  they  all  be  forgiven! 
The  truth  is  the  poets  should  not  be 
pubUshed,  nor  should  the  newspapers  be 
permitted  to  crown  the  singer  with  a  laurel- 
wreath  still  dripping  with  printers'  ink. 
The  poet  should  be  handed  down  as  was 
old  Homer  and  sung  in  the  market  place; 
if  then  in  the  future  there  is  enough  of  him 
left  to  be  considered  at  all,  let  him  then  be 
considered  seriously,  but  let  him  not,  O  let 
him  not,  do  it  for  himself  prematurely, 
for  fear.  Remember  the  famous  and  classic 
tragedy  of  Humpty  Dumpty  who  sat  on  a 
wall. 

276 


On    Taking   Oneself  Seriously 

Once  I  came  upon  an  editor  —  a  great 
editor !  —  who  in  a  moment  of  frenzy  was 
sincere.  I  was  looking  respectfully  at  that 
tomb  of  fame,  his  wastepaper  basket. 

"Did  you  pass  a  fellow  going  down?" 
and  he  threw  a  scowl  after  the  departed 
one.  "That  is  Jones."  He  really  didn't 
say  Jones,  but  he  mentioned  a  name  so 
famous  in  literature  that  the  tram-cars  pro- 
claim it  along  with  the  best  brands  of 
whiskies,  soap,  corsets,  and  sapolio,  and  it 
adorns  sandwich  men  in  the  gutter  by  the 
dozens;  hoardings  bellow  it  forth  silently, 
and  the  newspapers  devote  pages  to  it  as  if 
it  were  the  greatest  thing  in  patent  medicine. 

"I  made  him,"  and  the  editor  thumped 
his  sacred  desk.  "I  boomed  him  and  I 
printed  his  first  confounded  rot,"  and  he 
strode  up  and  down  the  room  with  a  full 
head  of  steam  on. 

"I've  always  said  it  is  the  advertising 
that  does  it,  not  the  stuff  one  advertises. 
Proved  it,  too,  and  then  sat  back  and 
watched  their  heads  swell.  He  is  the  last. 
A  year  ago  he  sat  in  that  very  chair  and 
gurgled  obsequious  thanks.  Last  week  we 
invited  him  to  dinner  and  he  forgot  to  come. 

277 


The   Champagne   St  an  d  ard 

To-day  he  came  in  just  to  say  if  I  don't  pay 
him  just  double  the  rate  I've  been  giving 
him  he'll  take  his  stuff  to  the  "Rocket," for 
the  "  Rocket"  editor  has  made  him  an  offer. 
And  this  to  me  who  boomed  him  and  made 
him  out  of  nothing.     O,  by  Jove!" 

"That  is  only  the  artistic  temperament," 
I  said  soothingly. 

"  Artistic  temperament!     There  is  no  such 

thing.     It's  only  another  name  for  d d 

bad  manners  and  a  swelled  head." 

I  was  greatly  interested  in  this  artless 
definition  of  the  artistic  temperament,  and 
I  went  off  deeply  pondering  as  to  what 
constitutes  a  swelled  head. 

Now  swelled  head  and  taking  yourself 
seriously  are  much  the  same,  only  that 
swelled  heads  are  common  in  all  grades  of 
society.  I  once  had  a  butcher  who  had  it, 
being  convinced  that  he  was  most  beautiful 
to  look  upon.  He  used  to  put  a  great  deal 
of  his  stock-in-trade  on  his  curling  brown 
locks.  He  was  not  a  bit  proud  of  the 
inside  of  his  head,  to  do  him  justice,  but 
he  was  so  absolutely  sure  of  the  effect  of 
his  shiny  hair,  his  big  black  moustache, 
his  red  cheeks  and  his  round  brown  eyes. 
278 


On    Taking   Oneself  Seriously 

He  was  a  very  happy  man.  Now  you  may 
take  yourself  seriously,  but  in  a  crevice  of 
your  mind  you  can  still  have  the  ghost  of  a 
doubt.  But  a  swelled  head  never  has  a 
doubt.  I  have  been  told  by  those  who  have 
had  an  opportunity  of  studying,  that  swelled 
heads  are  not  uncommon  among  shop- 
walkers, literary  people,  butlers  and  mem- 
bers of  Parliament,  and  that  musicians  even 
are  not  all  as  great  as  they  think  they  are. 
The  last  fiddler  I  had  the  joy  of  hearing 
scratched  with  so  much  temperament  and 
so  out  of  tune!  What  a  mercy  it  is  that  so 
many  people  do  not  know  a  false  note  when 
they  hear  it! 

It  has  even  been  whispered  that  some 
painters  who  paint  very  great  pictures  (in 
size)  are  really  not  so  wonderful  as  they 
think  they  are.  But  if  anyone  is  excusable 
for  a  too  benevolent  opinion  of  himself  it 
is  surely  a  painter  who  stands  before  an  acre 
of  canvas,  and  squeezes  a  thousand  dear 
Uttle  tubes,  and  daubs  away  and  has  the 
result  hung  on  the  Une.  Then  we  go  to  the 
private  view,  turn  our  backs  on  it  and  say, 
"Isn't  it  sublime — did  you  ever!"  Ah,  me, 
it  is  no  use  being  modest  in  this  world! 
279 


The   Champagne   Standard 

Take  yourself  seriously,  and  clap  on  a 
swelled  head  and  you  will  impress  all  such 
as  have  time  to  attend  to  you.  Have  we 
not  come  across  the  pretty  third-rate  actress 
who  puts  on  the  airs  of  the  great,  and  refers 
to  her  wooden  impersonations  as  *'Art"? 
O  art,  art,  what  sins  have  been  committed 
in  thy  name !  Have  we  not  met  the  pet  of 
the  papers,  the  celebrated  lady  noveUst? 
How  did  she  get  her  exalted  position? 
Goodness  knows!  She  sweeps  through  so- 
ciety with  superb  assurance,  and  she  is  really 
so  rude  at  afternoon  teas  that  that  alone 
proves  how  great  she  is;  she  only  relents 
when  she  meets  editors  and  reviewers.  She 
coos  at  them,  and  well  she  may  for  she  is 
crowned  with  the  laurel-wreath  of  the  best 
up-to-date  advertising. 

Once  I  met  a  little  politician  who  thought 
he  was  a  statesman.  A  rare  instance  of 
course.  Circumstances  made  me  helpless, 
so  to  speak,  and  so  he  inflicted  on  me 
all  the  speeches  he  did  not  make  in  the 
"House."  He  gave  me  to  understand  that 
the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  consulted 
him  on  all  intricate  matters  of  finance;  that 
he  was  in  fact  the  power  behind  the  throne. 
280 


On    Taking   Oneself  S eriously 


Now  the  truth  was,  and  he  knew  it,  and  I 
knew  it,  that  his  serious  work  consisted  in 
paying  those  little  tributes  his  constituency 
demanded,  to  subscribe  bravely  to  drink- 
ing fountains,  almshouses,  and  fairs  —  the 
kind  with  the  merry-go-rounds  —  and,  in 
his  enlightened  patriotism,  to  open  bazaars, 
and  also  to  dance  for  the  good  of  his  party. 
His  supreme  glory  was  to  write  M.P.  after 
his  name,  which  made  him  much  sought 
after  at  innocent  dinner-parties  that  aspired 
to  shine  with  reflected  glory.  On  such  occa- 
sions he  was  often  in  great  form  and  de- 
livered extracts  from  those  tremendous 
speeches  he  never  made.  But  everybody 
was  deeply  impressed  and  it  was  rumoured 
in  the  suburbs  that  he  would  certainly  be 
in  the  next  Cabinet. 

If  you  have  a  grain  of  humour  you  can't 
take  yourself  too  seriously,  for  then  you  do 
realise  how  desperately  unimportant  you 
are.  The  very  greatest  are  unimportant; 
what  then  about  the  little  bits  of  ones  who 
constitute  the  huge  majority?  Was  there 
ever  anyone  in  the  world  who  was  ever 
missed  except  by  one  or  two,  and  that  not 
because  he  was  great  or  even  necessary,  but 
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The   Champagne   Standard 

only  because  he  was  beloved  by  some  long- 
ing, aching  heart  ?  The  waters  of  oblivion 
settle  over  a  memory  as  quickly  as  over  a 
puddle  which  is  disturbed  by  a  pebble 
thrown  by  a  careless  hand.     Alas! 

Perhaps  the  most  tremendous  instance  of 
the  unimportance  of  the  greatest  was  Bis- 
marck's discharge  by  his  Emperor,  with  no 
more  ceremony,  indeed  less,  than  a  house- 
wife employs  to  discharge  her  cook.  The 
greatest  man  of  his  time,  the  creator  of 
an  empire,  the  inspirer  of  a  nation!  To 
whom  in  his  very  lifetime  statues  were 
erected,  north,  south,  east  and  west.  To 
whom  the  ardent  hearts  of  the  young  went 
forth  in  adoration;  whose  possible  death 
could  only  be  reckoned  on  as  a  misfortune 
that  would  leave  the  country  in  chaos,  when 
that  iron  hand  should  drop  the  reins.  Then 
one  memorable  day  he  dropped  the  reins, 
not  because  death  was  greater  than  he, 
but  simply  because  a  young,  untried  man 
wished  to  do  the  driving  himself.  So  he  was 
discharged.  What  happened  ?  Nothing. 
Since  then  who  can  believe  in  the  impor- 
tance of  anyone  ?  If  the  world  can  do 
perfectly  well  without  such  a  giant,  why 
282 


On    Taking   O neself  S ertously 

take  yourselves  so  seriously,  you  little  sec- 
ond-rate people  who  have  written  a  little 
book  that  is  dead  as  a  door  nail  in  three 
months,  you  little  second-rate  spouters  of 
talk  on  the  stage,  forgotten  as  soon  as  the 
light  is  turned  out,  you  little  second-rate 
musicians  with  your  long  hair,  your  bad 
nerves  and  your  greed  for  adulation!  Why, 
there  have  been  greater  folks  than  all  of 
you  put  together,  and  they  have  been  for- 
gotten as  a  summer  breeze  is  forgotten. 
Then  what  about  you  ?  Why  even  shop- 
walkers, and  butlers  and  parlour  maids, 
though  undoubtedly  very  important,  should 
think  of  Bismarck  and  not  be  so  dreadfully 
haughty! 

Then,  too,  how  many  people  think  them- 
selves great  who  are  only  lucky,  vulgarly 
lucky.  There  is  that  solemn  puffed-up 
one!  Would  he  be  so  important  if  he  had 
not  married  a  rich  wife  who  can  pay  the 
bills  ?  And  there  is  that  other  dull  piece 
of  prosperity  who  owes  all  his  success  to 
his  pretty  and  clever  wife  who  knows  just 
how  to  wheedle  good  things  out  of  the  really 
great.  And  yet  how  seriously  he  takes 
himself!  There  is  the  lucky  parson  who 
283 


The   Champa gne   Stand ard 

thinks  he  attracts  such  shoals  of  worship- 
pers to  God's  house.  Why  it  is  not  he  at 
all,  but  a  royal  princess  who  has  strayed  in 
and  whom  the  dear,  unworldly  sheep  are 
following.  Yet  how  seriously  he  takes  his 
reverend  self! 

There  is  the  great  medical  light,  who, 
while  curing  an  eminent  personage  of 
nothing  in  particular,  interspersed  a  few 
racy  anecdotes  that  made  him  roar.  No 
wonder  his  waiting-room  overflows,  and 
that  he  is  called  in  consultation  all  over  the 
land.  He  is  bound  to  be  knighted.  Why  ? 
Goodness  knows. 

There  is  the  popular  M.  P.  **I  am  the 
great  I  am,"  he  all  but  says  as  he  comes  in. 
Once  he  was  a  modest  man  with  modest 
friends,  now  he  thinks  he  is  a  great  man, 
and  he  wisely  turns  his  back  on  his  modest 
friends  because  he  realises  that  he  can 
serve  his  country  best  in  the  higher  social 
circles.  The  first  time  I  ever  saw  a  real 
live  M.  P.  was  in  America,  and  I  held  my 
breath  I  was  so  impressed. 

We  were  even  stirred  by  an  Englishman 
who  came  over  and  who  only  aspired  to  be 
an  M.P.  He  talked  of  nothing  but  himself 
284 


On    Taking   Oneself  Seriously 

and  his  political  views,  and  he  used  to  point 
out  the  majesty  of  his  own  intellect.  That 
was  possibly  the  result  of  the  American 
atmosphere;  it  is  rather  given  to  that!  He 
is  not  yet  an  M.P.,  and  over  here  he  has 
lucid  intervals  of  modesty.  In  a  fit  of 
humility  a  real  M.P.  once  confessed  to  me 
that  it  would  answer  all  practical  purposes 
if  he  sent  his  footman  to  that  magnificent 
building  on  the  Thames,  where  the  English 
legislator  covers  his  gigantic  intellect  with 
that  silk  hat,  which  represents  nothing  if 
not  perfect  propriety. 

One  curious  phase  of  taking  ourselves 
so  seriously  is  the  enormous  increased  im- 
portance of  the  Interesting.  Society  bristles 
with  the  Interesting.  Sometimes  one  won- 
ders where  the  uninteresting  go .?  Modern 
society  demands  that  you  should  be  some- 
thing or  do  something  or  say  something,  or 
at  least  pretend  to.  You  elbow  your  way 
through  the  other  struggling  mediocrities, 
and  behold  you  arrive  and  that  proves  that 
you  are  interesting,  whereupon  you  are 
invited  to  luncheon  and  dinner  and  things 
to  meet  the  other  Interestings.  Now  I  ask, 
as  one  perplexed,  are  you  ever  invited  to 
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The   Champagne   Stand ard 

meet  the  thoroughly  uninteresting  ?  And 
yet  don't  the  uninteresting  want  to  meet 
people  and  eat  things  ?  Of  course  they  do, 
but  the  world  does  not  want  them  at  any 
price ! 

Is  there,  perhaps,  a  dreary  corner  of  the 
earth  where  the  uninteresting,  one  is  not 
invited  to  meet,  come  together,  and  from 
this  modest  refuge  wistfully  watch  the  In- 
teresting asked  out  to  breakfast  and  other 
revels  ?  But,  really,  have  we  the  courage 
these  days  to  invite  anybody  without  asking 
an  "interesting"  person  to  meet  them? 
Have  we  the  moral  courage  to  invite  any- 
one to  meet  only  —  oneself?  Of  course  a 
stray  uninteresting  may  wander  into  the 
haunts  of  the  other  kind.  One  does  some- 
times meet  a  human  being  at  a  terribly 
intellectual  afternoon  tea  or  at  a  serious 
dinner  party,  whose  conversation  does  not 
absolutely  thrill  one's  pulses. 

Fortunately  the  world's  standard  of  what 
is  interesting  varies,  or  there  would  be  an 
appalUng  monotony  in  its  circles,  but  it  is 
understood  that  you  must  be  celebrated,  or 
notorious,  or  well  advertised  or  cheeky  and 
even  dishonest,  if  it  is  on  a  magnificent 
286 


On    Taking   Oneself  Seriously 

scale.  At  any  rate  you  must  take  yourself 
seriously  and  get  a  swelled  head. 

Each  Interesting  carries  about  with  him 
his  own  barrel  organ  on  which  he  grinds 
out  his  little  tune,  not  always  so  great  a 
tune  as  he  honestly  thinks,  but  still  it  is 
his  very  own.  You  may  have  all  the 
virtues  enumerated  in  the  dictionary,  but 
if  you  have  not  done  something,  or  said 
something,  or  been  something,  and  if  you 
are  only  a  well-meaning,  law-abiding  citi- 
zen and  regularly  pay  your  bills,  a  hum- 
drum virtue  which  the  hard-up  Interesting 
occasionally  ignores,  then  you  had  better 
give  up  and  retire  to  the  dull  society  to 
which  you  belong. 

In  studying  the  Interesting,  one  discovers 
that  they  do  not  always  carry  their  creden- 
tials on  the  outside.  Sometimes,  it  is  hu- 
miliating to  confess  it,  one  nearly  mistakes 
them  for  the  other  kind ;  still,  it  is  always  an 
honour  to  sit  on  the  outskirts  of  a  Great 
Mind,  and  humbly  wonder  in  what  forgotten 
corner  genius  has  so  triumphantly  hidden 
itself.  However,  an  uninteresting  celebrity 
is  quite  a  different  affair  from  the  unin- 
teresting pure  and  simple,  who  are  never 
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The   Champagne   Standard 

asked  to  meet  anybody  and  certainly  not 
to  meals. 

There  was  once,  so  we  were  taught  at 
school,  an  age  of  stone  and  an  age  of  iron. 
After  much  study  I  have  decided  that  we 
have  arrived  at  the  age  of  Lions.  Not  the 
four-legged,  dangerous  kind,  but  the  two- 
legged  ones  who  drink  tea  and  nibble  bis- 
cuits. The  analogy  is  even  more  solemnly 
striking  for  they  both  have  enormous  heads. 
The  lion  is  evolved  from  the  Interesting. 
First  you  have  to  be  interesting,  and  then 
you  must  practise  roaring,  modestly  at 
first,  but  not  too  modestly;  then  louder 
and  louder  until  society  simply  can't  ignore 
you,  you  make  so  much  noise,  and  so  you 
become  a  lion,  and  in  these  days  it  must  be 
a  very  pleasant  business  to  be  a  Hon,  the 
only  drawback  being  that  the  supply  rather 
exceeds  the  demand.  However,  no  matter 
how  excellent  a  thing  is,  there  is  sure  to  be 
some  trifling  drawback. 

Even  when  you  take  yourself  seriously 
the  effect  you  produce  if  not  irritating  is 
often  so  delightfully  funny !  But  one  ought 
to  be  thankful  for  that,  for  the  world  owes 
a  debt  of  gratitude  even  to  the  unconscious 


On    Taking   Oneself  Seriously 

humourist.  It  is  so  much  easier  to  make 
people  cry  than  to  make  them  laugh!  We 
are  all  little  ready-made  tragedians;  do  we 
not  come  into  the  world  with  a  cry  ?  I  feel 
convinced  that  it  is  easier  to  write  a  great 
tragedy  than  a  great  comedy.  Life's  key- 
note is  minor.  We  can  turn  on  tears  at 
short  notice,  but  humour  is  not  every 
man's  province. 

"Our  customers,"  the  courteous  attend- 
ant of  a  circulating  library  said  to  me  re- 
cently, "don't  like  funny  books  and  so  we 
don't  stock  them."  Perhaps  for  this  rea- 
son the  discouraged  humourist  in  search  of 
amusement,  seizes  rejoicing  on  those  refresh- 
ing people  who  take  themselves  seriously. 
It  adds  indeed  the  last  epicurean  touch 
to  his  delight  that  they  don't  know  how 
awfully  funny  they  are. 


289 


''Soft-Soaf 

IT  takes  a  great  deal  of  heroism  to  tell 
an  unpleasant  truth,  but  it  takes  a  great 
deal  more  of  heroism  to  hear  it.  The 
privilege  of  telling  an  unpleasant  truth 
is  strictly  confined  to  one's  famihar  friends, 
one's  family,  or  one's  enemies,  which  is 
probably  the  reason  that  no  one  is  a  hero  to 
any  of  these,  and  that  he  sometimes  hkes 
his  familiar  friends  and  his  family  quite 
as  much  as  he  does  his  enemies.  It  is,  after 
all,  an  exceptional  person  who  has  a  great 
opinion  of  himself;  even  the  most  conceited 
has,  I  feel  sure,  his  quarter  hours  when  he 
sits  in  sackcloth  and  ashes  and  comtem- 
plates  his  failures.  No  one  rises  superior 
to  a  compliment,  and  without  such  and 
other  little  amenities  of  life  how  the  world's 
machinery  would  creak!  I  admire  all  those 
Spartan  souls  who  declare  that  they  love 
the  truth,  and  it  is  humiliating  to  confess 
that  I  don't  love  the  truth  unless  it  is  a 
pleasant  one. 

Everybody  is,  I  do  believe,  his  own  best 
290 


Soft-Soap 

critic,  and  there  is  hardly  any  thing  un- 
pleasant your  family  can  tell  you  about 
yourself  that  you  have  not  known  long  be- 
fore; but  it  is  an  added  humiliation  to  see 
yourself  betrayed  to  the  world.  For  ex- 
ample, it  is  the  exception  for  the  creator 
of  any  work  which  is  in  reality  poor,  but 
which  the  voice  of  the  people  acclaims 
(and  the  people  are  about  the  poorest 
critics  going),  if  he  does  not  realise  down 
in  his  doubting  heart,  that  his  stuff  is  poor 
stuff.  It  is  that  which  keeps  the  human 
balance,  or  some  of  our  greatest  ones,  or 
rather  our  noisiest  ones,  would  be  inflated 
to  the  danger-point.  There  is  a  right 
standard  in  every  heart,  even  if  warped  by 
circumstances,  and  the  excuse,  "He  knew 
no  better,"  hardly  holds  good  out  of  a 
lunatic  asylum. 

It  is  always  our  humourists  who  have 
tackled  truth,  and  who  have  shown  with  a 
laugh  that  touches  perilously  near  a  sob 
(a  little  way  of  humourists!)  that  a  standard 
of  pure  unvarnished  truth  has  never  been 
popular  in  this  erring  world;  at  least  not 
since  some  of  out  forefathers  scalped  their 
brother  forefathers,  and  the  ladies  and 
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The   Champagne  Standard 

gentlemen  who  dwelt  in  caves  took  their 
afternoon  tea  in  the  shape  of  a  cosy  nibble 
at  the  bones  of  their  foes.  It  is  not  the 
bones  of  our  foes  we  nibble  in  these  en- 
lightened days! 

It  was  an  immortal  humourist  who,  hav- 
ing discovered  that  truth  is  not  what  we 
want,  —  unless  like  a  pill  in  sugar,  —  pro- 
vided the  world  with  a  substitute  —  soft- 
soap.  It  is  really  soft-soap  which  makes 
social  intercourse  so  delightfully  easy,  and 
we  therefore  owe  our  humorous  benefactor 
a  heavy  debt  of  gratitude. 

Nothing  is,  however,  perfect,  and  if  this 
blessed  discovery  has  one  little  defect,  it  is 
that,  like  patent  medicine,  the  more  you 
swallow  the  more  you  want;  so  it  occa- 
sionally happens  that  the  great  ones  of  this 
world  have  finally  to  have  it  administered 
in  buckets  where  once  they  were  grateful 
for  only  a  sip. 

The  philosophic  mind  will  discover  that 
society  can  be  quite  simply  divided  into 
two  classes,  —  one  soft-soaps  and  the  other 
permits  itself  to  be  soft-soaped.  The  hu- 
mourist who  invented  the  precious  substitute 
for  truth  hardly  realised  the  value  of  what 
292 


S  oft-S 0 a p 

he  did;  for  had  he  taken  out  a  patent  he 
would  have  rivalled  in  wealth  the  great 
Rockefeller  himself,  who  has  been  so  divinely 
blessed  in  that  other  oily  article  —  petro- 
leum. 

When  soft-soap  was  invented  it  was 
constructed  out  of  the  best  materials  of  in- 
sincerity, surface  enthusiasm,  a  touch  some- 
times of  covert  satire  (or  it  would  spoil),  and 
just  enough  truth  to  mix  the  ingredients 
and  make  them  digest.  This  is  adminis- 
tered in  all  grades  of  society  with  the  greatest 
success,  and  of  it  can  be  said,  in  the  pathetic 
words  of  an  American  advertisement  of  a 
preparation  of  medicine  not  usually  popular 
with  childhood,  castor-oil,  "Even  children 
cry  for  it." 

Of  the  two  classes,  those  who  administer 
and  those  who  swallow  this  pleasant  mix- 
ture, it  is  needless  to  say  that  in  the  lower 
class  are  those  who  administer  soft-soap. 
If  in  course  of  time  the  soft-soaper  proves 
that  he  is  possessed  of  transcendent  abilities 
he  graduates  after  hard,  hard  struggles, 
resigns  his  bucket,  and  proceeds  to  enjoy 
the  superior  privilege  of  being  soft-soaped 
in  turn;  and  the  curious  fact  is  that,  after 
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The   Champagne   Stand ard 

having  administered  it  so  long,  when  he 
comes  to  taste  it  himself  he  does  not  recog- 
nise the  familiar  article  at  all.  Of  course 
there  are  some  soft-soapers  who  never  ad- 
vance and  never  aspire. 

As  one  strolls  observingly  through  so- 
ciety, one  discovers  it  is  some  people's 
mission  in  Hfe  to  draw  other  people  out.  It 
is  rare  to  find  two  persons  talking  together 
who  give  and  take  with  equal  facility,  who 
contribute  equally  to  the  charm  and  bright- 
ness of  the  occasion.  One  of  the  two  is 
sure  to  lead  the  other  into  those  conversa- 
tional oases  where  he  loves  to  gambol  — 
and  very  hard  work  it  sometimes  is! 

Alas!  the  pioneers  who  soft-soap  are 
usually  women.  You  dear  and  uncom- 
plaining sex,  how  hard  you  have  to  work 
to  be  called  charming  by  that  other  sex  that 
so  greedily  laps  up  the  invention  of  the  great 
humourist!  From  artisans  of  soft-soap  you 
have  indeed  become  artists.  To  you  we  owe 
those  delightful  multitudes  of  spoilt  men 
who  sulk  or  sniff  or  shoulder  their  preten- 
tious way  through  society.  Yes,  your  pro- 
duct! If  society  consisted  only  of  men  it 
would  be  quite  sincere,  even  if  rather  brutal, 
294 


S  oft-S  oap 

and  as  for  soft-soap,  it  wouldn't  exist.  It 
would  be  interesting  to  know  the  sex  of  that 
historical  serpent  in  the  Garden  of  Eden! 

A  man,  if  he  ever  soft-soaps  another  man, 
does  it  for  a  definite  object  and  hardly  realises 
his  own  insincerity,  but  a  woman  —  well, 
it  is  a  woman's  religion  to  make  a  man 
think  her  charming,  and  I  am  afraid  — 
desperately  afraid  —  that  she  does  this 
most  successfully  when  she  makes  him  talk 
about  himself.  Women,  poor  things,  are 
Hke  the  heathen:  first  they  create  an  idol, 
sometimes  out  of  very  common  clay  it  is  to 
be  feared,  and  then  they  proceed  to  wor- 
ship it. 

How  often  does  a  man  turn  over  in  his 
mind  what  subject  of  conversation  the 
woman  will  talk  about  best  with  whom 
accident  has  thrown  him,  especially  if 
she  be  plain  and  shy  ?  Now,  what  about 
women,  on  the  other  hand  ?  Why,  a  man 
must  be  a  great  idiot  indeed  if  he  does  not 
find  some  woman  to  coo  little  nothings  at 
him;  to  lead  him  tenderly  out  of  narrow, 
monosyllabic  paths  into  the  glowing  butter- 
cup and  dandelion  fields  of  conversation 
where  he  can  gambol  joyfully.  *'I  came 
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The   Champagne   Standard 

out  strong,  by  Jove!"  he  congratulates  him- 
self proudly  as  they  separate,  and  the  goose 
never  realises,  as  he  supports  himself  against 
his  usual  wall  and  stares  vacantly  at  the 
crowd,  that  the  beguiling  young  thing,  who 
smiled  up  at  him  hke  a  rising  sun,  laboured 
with  him  with  an  energy  which  would  have 
appalled  a  coal-heaver.  Now,  would  a 
man  fatigue  himself  as  much  to  chatter  with 
an  empty-headed  unattractive  girl  ?  Hand 
on  heart,  gentlemen,  confess! 

It  was  Thackeray  who  said  that  any 
woman  not  disfigured  with  a  hump  might 
marry  any  man.  It  is  presumption  to  con- 
tradict the  immortal  master,  but  I  don't 
believe  it.  Rather  do  I  believe  the  words 
of  wisdom  of  our  old  family  cook.  She 
finished  a  dissertation  on  matrimony  with 
the  following  profound  reflections :  — 

"Women  ain't  so  particular  as  men. 
There  ain't  a  man  but'll  find  some  woman 
to  have  him!  If  every  woman  could  get  a 
man  there  wouldn't  be  so  many  old  maids. 
Down  to  our  village  there  was  a  man  who 
hadn't  any  arms  or  legs,  but  goodness  me! 
even  he  got  a  wife.  She  came  to  call  with 
him  one  day,  and  she'd  fixed  up  a  soap-box 
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Soft-Soap 

on  wheels  and  was  drawing  him  along  as 
comfy  as  you  please,  and  she  never  made  a 
cent  out  of  him,  for  he  wa'ant  a  freak.  Now 
I'd  just  like  to  see  a  man  up  and  do  that  for 
a  woman,  I  guess!  No,  women  ain't  so 
particular." 

Surely  it  holds  good  in  society.  If  we 
don't  drag  around  a  gentleman  without  the 
usual  complement  of  arms  and  legs,  we 
more  often  than  not  support  a  gentleman 
without  brains  or  manners,  and  we  make 
him  more  insufferable  than  he  naturally  is 
by  giving  him  a  false  valuation,  in  which 
he  proceeds  at  once  to  believe,  because,  if 
there  is  one  thing  the  stupidest  man  can  do, 
it  is,  he  can  get  conceited.  Indeed  the 
weaker  sex  has  much  to  answer  for,  for  she 
has  created  the  twentieth  century  man,  who 
would  be  a  dear  if  only  the  women  would 
leave  him  alone. 

However,  it  is  not  only  men  women  soft- 
soap  —  they  soft-soap  each  other  as  well. 
The  motives  are  twofold.  Sometimes  the 
wielder  of  the  bucket  has  an  axe  to  grind, 
or  she  hkes  to  be  popular  at  a  cheap  price. 
She  always  says  something  agreeable,  and 
it  is  indeed  a  steel-clad  heart  that  can  resist. 
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r 


How  feel  anything  but  friendly  when  a  dea 
feminine  gusher  declares  that  you  have  the 
lovehest  clothes,  the  most  wonderful  brains, 
the  brightest  eyes,  the  most  agreeable  hus- 
band, and  the  best  cook  in  the  world!  The 
chances  are  that  you  hated  her  as  she  swam 
up  and  favoured  your  unyielding  hand  with 
cordial  pumping;  but  she  thought  —  no,  she 
didn't  think,  the  process  is  automatic,  she 
merely  dropped  a  penny  in  the  slot  of  your 
evident  antagonism  on  the  chance  of  its 
possibly  resulting  in  a  cool  invitation  to  call, 
a  crush  tea  or  a  lunch:  nothing  is  to  be 
despised,  for  you  never  can  tell! 

When  a  woman  decides  to  say  something 
real  nice  she  stops  at  nothing.  She  even 
sacrifices  her  nearest  and  dearest. 

"How  is  that  handsome,  brilUant  boy  of 
yours?"  a  devoted  mother  asked  me  the 
other  day.  ''How  I  wish  my  Jack  were 
hke  him!  But  he's  only  just  a  dear,  good, 
ordinary  boy  who'll  never  set  the  Thames 
on  fire;  well,  we  can't  all  be  the  mother  of  a 
genius!"  Now,  could  one  do  anything  else 
than  invite  that  truly  discriminating  woman 
to  lunch  ? 

As  I  said  before,  it  is  some  people's  mis- 
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Soft-S  oap 

sion  to  draw  others  out.  Some  take  every- 
thing hard,  among  other  things,  society. 
They  hate  to  be  among  their  kind,  but  they 
hate  just  as  much  the  dignity  of  soUtude; 
so  they  compromise  matters  by  going  about 
as  dull  and  dreary  as  graven  images,  sur- 
rounded by  a  private  atmosphere  of  frost. 
Then  there  are  the  adaptable  ones  who 
talk  and  laugh,  while  down  in  their  souls 
they  are  bored  to  death.  But  never  mind 
about  being  bored,  the  crime  is  to  look 
bored.  Adaptability  is  distinctly  not  an 
EngKsh  national  trait,  rather  is  it  American, 
the  race  made  up  of  all  races,  and  for  this 
reason  American  society  is,  even  if  only  on 
the  surface,  —  and  who  in  society  ever  gets 
below  the  surface  ?  —  more  amusing  than 
English  society. 

Oh,  the  heavenly  rest  and  comfort  when 
you  pause  exhausted  after  having  pumped 
at  a  perfectly  empty  human  being  to  find 
the  process  applied  to  yourself,  and  after 
all  you  do  respond. 

I  was  struck  by  it  the  other  day  when,  in 

a  roomful  of  English  people  who  had  been 

talked  to  and  trotted  out  and  made  to  show 

their  best  paces  each  in  his  own  little  field, 

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The   Champagne   Standard 

there  came  to  the  charming,  but  exhausted, 
hostess  a  Frenchman  who  proceeded  to 
draw  her  out.  The  sweet  restfulness  of  it! 
She  had  not  to  originate  a  single  idea,  and 
I  am  perfectly  sure  that  every  other  man 
in  the  room  was  holding  forth  on  some  sub- 
ject originated  by  the  woman  he  was  talking 
to;  he  was  likely  to  talk  till  he  had  run  down, 
and  then  she  would  have  to  wind  him  up 
with  a  new  subject.  If  she  didn't  he  would 
go  away  and  leave  her  mortified  and  alone, 
and  a  woman  can  stand  being  bored,  but 
she  cannot  stand  looking  deserted.  A 
lovely  woman  told  me  all  about  it  once. 

"The  reason  I  am  so  popular,"  she  said 
frankly,  "is  because  I  flatter  the  men  to  the 
top  of  their  bent.  Vanity  and  love  make 
the  world  go  round,  —  vanity  first  and  love 
a  long  way  after.     Nothing  else. 

"Tell  a  woman  she  is  perfect  and  she 
doubts  you  —  sometimes.  But  tell  a  man 
that  (one  can  in  all  sorts  of  ways),  why,  he 
only  thinks  it  is  his  due  —  possibly  he  will 
think  you  are  clever.  Most  men  are  stupid 
—  I  don't  mean  their  working  brains,  their 
bread-and-butter  brains,  but  their  society 
brains.  They  swallow  anything  you  tell 
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them.  They  originate  everything  in  this 
blessed  world  —  but  conversation. 

"If  a  man  converses  he  discourses  and 
he  improves  your  mind.  Now  you  don't 
always  want  to  have  your  mind  improved! 
I  don't  say  he  doesn't  know  how  to  make 
love;  but  that  doesn't  count,  for  after  all, 
making  love  is,  often  as  not,  silence  a  deux. 
So  if  he  isn't  improving  your  mind  or  making 
love  he  is  stranded,  and  that  is  where  we 
women  come  in. 

"I  don't  want  my  mind  improved  at  an 
afternoon  tea,  nor  do  I  wish  to  be  made 
love  to  over  an  uninspiring  biscuit,  and  I 
should  feel  eternally  disgraced  if  either  of 
us  looked  bored;  so  I  give  him  leading 
questions  like  sugar-plums,  and  while  he 
nibbles  away  at  each  in  turn  till  he  has 
sucked  it  up,  I  have  learnt  to  look  at  him 
with  all  my  eyes  —  a  kind  of  subdued  rap- 
ture which  I  adjust  according  to  the  man, 
and  then  I  detach  my  mind  and  consider 
what  the  clever  stupid  can  talk  about  next. 

"  It  isn't  necessary  to  do  anything  but  to 

smile,  especially  if  you  have  nice  teeth,  as 

he  does  all  the  talking;  but  he'll  think  you 

are  the   cleverest  woman   going.     Possibly 

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you  are,  only  he  doesn't  really  know  how 
clever  you  are!  There  are  some  women 
you  have  to  treat  in  the  same  way,  and 
they  are  either  very  distinguished  and  spoilt 
or  they  are  very  influential,  or  they  have 
missions;  but  it's  always  a  bore,  and  unless 
you  are  'on  the  make'  —  a  very  ill-bred 
expression,  I  think  —  it's  tiresome  and 
doesn't  pay.  I  don't  mind  being  bored  for 
the  sake  of  a  man,  but  I  really  won't  be 
bored  for  the  sake  of  a  woman. 

"  But,  my  dear,  it  is  very  fatiguing  at  best, 
and  no  wonder  the  women  crowd  into  re- 
treats and  nervine  asylums.  It  isn't  the 
pace  that  kills,  but  the  unearthly  dulness. 
After  I  have  talked  to  half  a  dozen  men 
for  whom  I  make  conversation  I  go  home 
to  bed,  and  the  vitality  I  have  left  wouldn't 
be  enough  for  an  able-bodied  worm. 

"Do  I  ever  find  a  man  who  is  interested 
in  me  if  he  is  not  in  love  with  me  ?  Never! 
If  he  is  in  love  with  me;  yes!  That's  an- 
other story.  Then  everything  about  me 
interests  him,  but,  perhaps,  even  then  only 
because  I  am  his  temporary  ideal.  I  dare- 
say it's  only  another  form  of  selfishness, 
bless  him!  The  stupidity  of  men!  That's 
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the  reason  they  are  so  fatuous;  they  don't 
understand! 

"  Find  me  the  man  who  isn't  under  the 
impression  that  some  woman  is  hopelessly 
in  love  with  him;  and  only  because  she 
has  taken  such  pains  to  smile  and  coo  at 
him,  which  she  generally  does  to  keep  her 
hand  in;  any  man  is  to  her  an  instrument 
on  which  she,  as  an  artist,  finds  it  service- 
able to  play  a  few  scales.  To  call  men  the 
ruling  sex,"  —  and  my  friend  laughed  till 
I  saw  every  one  of  her  beautiful  teeth,  — 
"they  are  the  ruled  sex,  and  they  get  mar- 
ried by  the  women  who  want  them  most." 

She  evidently  agreed  with  Thackeray. 
I  don't,  as  I  explained  before. 

'*My  dear,  how  many  an  innocent  young 
thing  has  said  'Yes'  when  *he'  has  had  no 
earthly  intention  of  asking  for  anything  — 
certainly  not  for  her  dear  little  hand. 

'"May  I?'  was  possibly  all  he  said,  but 
he  looked  three  thrilling  volumes.  'Yes,' 
she  whispered  innocently,  'but  do  first  ask 
papa.'  How  can  he  explain  to  her  that  the 
question  trembUng  on  his  lips  was  whether 
he  should  bring  her  a  lemon-squash  or  a 
strawberry-ice.  He  asked  papa  and  they 
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lived  happily  ever  after,  and  it  answered 
just  as  well.  Now  what  I  wonder  is,"  she 
concluded,  "which  is  the  stupider  —  he  or 
she?" 

One  hasn't  time  to  soft-soap  one's  rela- 
tives. For  its  successful  use  there  is  re- 
quired a  certain  exhilaration  of  spirits  which 
familiarity  does  not  encourage.  It  is  more 
easy  to  be  charming  to  one's  acquaintances 
or  intimate  enemies  than  to  the  bosom  of 
one's  family.  One  can  be  kinder  to  one's 
own,  but  more  charming  to  the  outside 
world,  alas! 

"A  woman  doesn't  go  on  for  ever  co- 
quetting with  her  husband  —  it  is  a  pity, 
but  it's  true.  Perhaps  if  it  were  less  true 
there  would  be  fewer  divorces.  When,  in 
the  happy  past,  your  husband  was  your 
lover  and  he  looked  at  you  with  adoring 
eyes,  why,  then  you  could  be  charming,  — 
at  least  for  a  few  hours,  because  to  be  charm- 
ing longer  gets  on  one's  nerves.  Later, 
when  you  are  married  and  he  won't  get  up 
in  the  morning,  and  you  say  to  him  severely, 
"Samuel, are  you  never  going  to  get  up  ?  It's 
nine  o'clock,  and  cook  says  she'll  give  notice, 
for  she  can't  and  she  won't  live  in  such  a 
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S  oft-S  oa p 

late  family,"  and  your  Samuel  grunts,  turns 
over,  and  hurriedly  takes  forty  more  winks, 
how  can  you  possibly  be  charming  just  then  ? 

Nor  can  you  murmur  to  your  Samuel 
that  he  is  the  most  interesting  man  you 
ever  met,  and  that  his  brain  is  superior  to 
all  other  brains.  He  doesn't  care  a  rap 
what  you  think  about  his  brains,  and  he'd 
much  rather  you  wouldn't  bother  him  but 
go  downstairs;  and  so  you  do  go  downstairs 
in  that  very  unbecoming  frock  of  your  pre- 
married  days  in  which  you  wouldn't  have 
had  him  see  you  for  worlds.  But  now  it 
has  come  again  to  the  fore,  ever  since  the 
time  Samuel  said  pleasantly  —  he  certainly 
has  no  talent  for  soft-soap  —  that  after 
people  have  been  married  a  year  neither 
knows  how  the  other  looks.  This  from 
your  Samuel,  for  whose  sake  you  ran  up 
an  awful  dressmaker's  bill  in  other  days. 
So  you  unearth  your  hideous  frock  with  a 
desperate  sigh. 

Rut  you  always  know  how  your  Samuel 
looks,  and  when  he  wears  an  unbecoming 
necktie  you  grieve  and  nag  and  give  him 
no  peace.  Perhaps  it  were  well,  after  all, 
if  a  bit  of  soft-soap  could  be  bottled  up 
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The   Champagne   Standard 

during  courting-time  and  labelled  "To  be 
used  after  marriage." 

When  men  soft-soap  men  it  is  in  devious 
ways.  One  of  the  most  subtle,  if  you  are 
a  little  man  and  you  wish  to  flatter  a  great 
man,  is  to  disagree  with  him.  He  is  much 
impressed  by  your  independence,  and  he  is 
sorry  for  you  too,  because  you  own  up  to 
your  awful  presumption,  and  by  inference 
you  can  soft-soap  him  up  and  down  just  as 
they  whitewash  a  wooden  fence.  And  he 
says  he  likes  your  independence,  and  he 
shakes  hands  with  you  and  knows  you  the 
next  time  you  meet,  and  calls  you  *'My 
independent  young  friend,"  and  invites 
you  to  luncheon.  Now,  had  you  agreed 
with  every  word  he  said  you  would  have 
been  only  one  of  the  usual  job-lot  of  ad- 
mirers, and  he  wouldn't  have  remembered 
you  from  Adam. 

Of  course  you  have  to  administer  dis- 
agreement with  great  caution,  because  when 
a  man  reaches  the  highest  eminence  there 
is  nothing  that  makes  him  so  mad  as  con- 
tradiction. The  first  sign  of  real  greatness 
shows  itself  when  you  decline  to  be  con- 
tradicted. If,  as  it  is  stated,  Lord  Beacons- 
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S  oft-S  oap 

field  never  contradicted  his  Queen,  then 
did  he  well  deserve  her  most  loyal  friend- 
ship. The  bliss  of  never  being  contradicted! 
for  that  alone  it  is  worth  being  a  queen; 
but  of  course  that  is  essentially  a  royal  pre- 
rogative. It  is  said  that  there  are  people 
who  by  the  exercise  of  this  great  negative 
gift  have  worked  their  way  up  from  being 
quite  modest  members  of  society  until  they 
are  now  shining  social  lights. 

Tell  a  man  how  great  he  is  and  will  he 
come  to  tea  ?  for  there  are  crowds  dying 
to  meet  him;  why,  of  course  he  will  come. 
Who  has  ever  yet  met  a  really  celebrated 
recluse.  One  has  heaps  of  recluses  who 
professed  to  like  solitude,  but  only  in  a 
crowd,  but  there  was  never  one,  however 
famous,  who  chose  to  exile  himself  in  a 
desert  island  without  the  morning  paper. 

It  is  said  of  a  famous  poet,  whose  footsteps 
were  much  dogged  by  the  enterprising 
tourist,  that  he  complained  bitterly  and 
wrathfully  of  his  inability  to  have  even  his 
own  privacy;  but  that  his  bitterness  and 
wrath  were  as  nothing  to  what  he  felt  when 
the  blameless  tripper  was  discovered  to  be 
paying  no  attention  to  him  whatever.     One 


The   Champagne   Standard 

wonders  if  this  innocent  form  of  soft-soap 
is  out  of  fashion,  or  are  the  poets  less  great  ? 
How  many  pious  pilgrims  wandered  to  the 
old  Colonial  house  in  Cambridge,  America, 
where  Longfellow  lived,  and  looked  with 
awe  at  his  front  windows.  Did  not  pil- 
grims by  the  car-load  go  to  Concord  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  great  Emerson, 
while  they  leaned  reverently  across  the  phi- 
losopher's white  picket-fence  ? 

The  poets  of  the  past  were  accustomed 
to  this  innocent  worship;  what  about  the 
poets  of  to-day  ?  Do  they  also  walk  along 
the  streets  haughtily  (like  the  illustrious 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Crummies)  whilst  admiring 
passers-by  stop  and  say  with  bated  breath, 
''This  is  the  great  Smith!"  or  is  that  in- 
voluntary form  of  flattery  out  of  fashion,  or 
haven't  the  new  poets  grown  up  yet  ? 

Perhaps  an  ardent  admirer  might  suggest 
Miss  Marie  Corelli  as  one  to  whom  the 
twentieth  century  pilgrim  makes  pilgrim- 
ages; but  that  isn't  fair,  for  how  can  any 
one  distinguish  her  pilgrims  from  Shake- 
speare's pilgrims  .?  Pilgrims  are  not  labelled 
like  trunks.  One  hardly  ventures  to  say 
so,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  in  this  Miss 
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Soft-Soap 

Corelli  has  taken  an  unfair  advantage  of 
Shakespeare  and  the  other  poets. 

There  is  nothing  so  democratic  as  true 
greatness,  and  this  is  a  democratic  age,  and 
everybody  exhibits  to  the  pubhc.  We  are 
either  a  great  orator  or  we  loop  the  loop,  or 
we  are  a  transcendent  poet,  or  we  walk  from 
Cheapside  to  the  Marble  Arch  on  a  wager. 
But  do  we  do  all  these  great  things  alone, 
unseen  or  unheard  of  by  the  world  ?  No, 
we  don't!  Not  a  bit  of  it!  It  is  not  praise 
we  want  —  we  want  more.  We  clamour 
for  soft-soap;  we  demand  it  at  the  point  of 
the  bayonet. 

It  is  an  age  of  coarse  effects,  an  age  of 
advertisement.  A  poet  could  not  con- 
scientiously sing  now  about  a  rose  left  to 
bloom  unseen,  for  excursion  trains  would 
be  sure  to  be  arranged  there  at  reduced 
rates.  It  is  a  confidential  age,  and  we 
demand  a  confidant  as  much  as  a  matter 
of  course  as  the  heroine  of  the  old-fashioned 
Italian  opera,  —  in  fact  we  demand  the 
undivided  attention  of  the  whole  world. 

We  sing  our  songs  and  listen  greedily  for 
the  applause  of  the  gallery;  we  meet  with 
domestic  misfortune,  and  we  weep  on  the 
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The    Champagne   Standard 

bosom  of  the  divorce  court,  and  the  daily 
papers  weep  with  us.  We  do  not  do  good 
by  stealth,  but  rather  in  such  a  way  that 
we  get  a  baronetcy  or  a  decoration;  so  when 
you  see  a  man  all  tinkley  with  little  stars 
and  things,  you  will  know  that  he  is  always 
a  very  great  and  charitable  man  indeed, 
and  charity  is  not  only  alms  bestowed  on  the 
poor.  It  is  the  beauty  of  charity  that  it  is 
not  bigoted. 

We  put  our  breaking  hearts  under  a 
microscope  and  make  "copy"  out  of  them 
and  money  and  notoriety,  —  and  notoriety 
in  these  days  pays  much  better  than  mere 
celebrity,  and  what  therefore  so  fitting  a 
tribute  to  notoriety  as  soft-soap?  Ah  me! 
it  is  enough  to  make  the  cat  laugh!  I  really 
have  never  understood  this  curious  fact  in 
natural  history,  though  I  know  how  hard 
it  is  to  make  a  cat  laugh;  this  whole  morning 
I  spent  trying  to  make  Mr.  Boxer  laugh 
(Mr.  Boxer  being  the  purry  commander- 
in-chief  of  our  mouse-holes),  and  did  not 
succeed. 

Our  modern  world  is  a  hippodrome,  and 
we  demand  hippodrome  effects  and  thunders 
of  applause,  because  ordinary  applause  can- 
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Soft-Soap 

not  be  heard.  Watch  the  next  painted  face 
you  see,  and  observe  how  famiharity  with 
the  process  has  coarsened  it.  Not  that  one 
has  any  objection  to  paint  if  it  is  well  done. 
It  is  a  woman's  duty  to  look  her  best;  and 
if  paint  makes  her  more  beautiful,  let  her 
put  it  on  —  but,  one  does  implore,  not  with 
the  trowel. 

The  other  night  there  was  a  great  un- 
becoming function,  but  then  all  great 
functions  are  unbecoming  by  reason  of  the 
presence  of  woman's  arch-enemy  —  elec- 
tricity. It  is  quite  certain  that  the  first 
electrician  was  not  only  deplorably  ignorant 
of  the  social  virtues  of  soft-soap,  but  he 
was,  besides,  a  jilted  and  misanthropic  old 
bachelor  who  avenged  his  wrongs  by  har- 
nessing electricity  to  a  lamp,  and  cynically 
rejoiced  when,  for  the  first  time,  he  turned 
its  cruel  light  on  the  wrinkles,  the  hair-dye, 
and  the  dull  jaded  eyes  of  Society,  and 
changed  the  pink  of  art  into  an  uncon- 
vincing blue. 

It  was  on  that  same  occasion  that  I 
became  deeply  impressed  by  the  tiara  of 
Great  Britain,  which,  it  appears,  is  a  Na- 
tional Institution,  worn  by  the  Aged  instead 

311 


The   Champagne   Standard 

of  caps,  only  caps  are  much  more  com- 
fortable. I  also  discovered  that  it  need  have 
nothing  in  common  with  the  rest  of  the 
toilet;  at  any  rate  one  worthy  lady  so  adorned 
had  a  little  breakfast-shawl  about  her 
shoulders. 

If  it  is  true  that  the  ladies  of  the  United 
States  have  recently  plucked  up  enough 
courage  to  adopt  the  tiara  of  Great  Britain, 
and  should  any  one  perhaps  insinuate  that 
this  is  inconsistent  with  austere  republican 
principles,  a  sufficient  and  crushing  reply 
is  that  in  America  every  woman  is  a  "lady,'* 
and  every  "lady"  is  a  queen. 

To  return  to  her  of  the  tiara  and  the 
breakfast-shawl.  One  did  wonder  what  illu- 
sion she  laboured  under  when  she  fastened 
that  diamond  structure  to  the  thin  bandeaux 
of  her  faded  hair,  where  it  swayed  insecurely. 
Did  some  one  send  the  poor  soul  away  from 
home  and  tell  her  she  looked  lovely,  and  as 
she  trundled  off  in  her  brougham  did  fifty 
years  slide  temporarily  from  her  old  shoul- 
ders ?  After  all,  soft-soap  has  its  virtues; 
it  is  just  the  thing  for  the  aged! 

What  are  illusions  but  soft-soap  self- 
administered,  and  what  would  life  be  with- 
312 


S oft-S  oap 

out  illusions?  Show  me  the  heroic  soul 
who  can  look  into  a  mirror  and  who  sees 
what  she  really  sees!  O  self-administered 
soft-soap!  what  does  she  really  see? 

Upon  my  word,  I  have  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  a  certain  measure  of  soft-soap 
is  not  only  a  social  necessity,  it  is  more,  it  is 
a  social  duty;  only  one  would  like  to  offer 
a  plea,  just  a  little  plea,  for  a  fair  division  of 
labour!  It  is  so  hard  always  to  say  delight- 
ful things,  especially  if  you  don't  mean 
them!  It  is  being  a  thirsty  Ganymede  at 
the  feast  of  the  gods. 

O,  great  humourist  of  soft-soap,  you  made 
two  mistakes  when  you  invented  your  won- 
derful lubricator  of  social  intercourse;  not 
only,  like  patent  medicine,  does  the  dose 
require  to  be  constantly  increased,  but  you 
forgot  to  insist  on  what  is  most  vital  —  a 
periodic  change  of  parts. 

My  plea  is  that  the  soft-soaped  one  should 
occasionally  be  obliged  to  step  down  from 
his  pedestal  and  turn  his  own  insincere 
admiration,  his  surface  enthusiasm,  and 
the  countless  and  well-meant  lies  with  which 
he  helps  to  make  the  existence  of  the  soft- 
soaped  so  pleasant,  upon  that  unwearied 
313 


The   Champagne   Standard 

and  energetic  prevaricator,  whose  mission 
it  is  to  praise,  no  matter  how  untruthfully. 

Yes,  even  "little  tin  gods  on  wheels" 
should  be  made  to  step  down  from  high 
Olympus  and,  in  turn,  serve  their  thirsting 
and  patient  Ganymede. 


314 


KITWYK 

By    MRS.    JOHN    LANE 

With  numerous  Illustrations  by  Albert  Sterner, 
Howard  Pyle,  and  George  Wharton  Edwards. 

Crown  8vo.,  6s. 
SOME   PRESS    OPINIONS 

"  Mrs.  Lane  has  succeeded  to  admiration,  and  chiefly  by  reason  of  being 
so  much  interested  in  her  theme  herself  that  she  makes  no  conscious  effort 
to  please.  She  just  tells  her  tales  with  no  more  artifice  than  one  might  use 
in  narrative  by  word  of  mouth,  and  she  keeps  the  reader's  interest  as  keenly 
ahve  as  if  he  were  really  listening  to  an  amusing  story  of  what  had  once 
actually  happened.  Every  one  who  seeks  to  be  diverted  will  read  '  Kitwyk '  for 
its  obvious  qualities  of  entertainment. " — Times. 

"Dip  where  one  will  into  her  sparkling  pages  one  is  certain  to  find  enter- 
tainment, and  the  charm  is  much  assisted  by  the  delightful  illustrations." — 
Daily  Telegraph. 

"  'Kitwyk'  is  destined  to  be  in  fiction  what  an  old  Dutch  master  painter 
is  in  painting — a  work  at  once  typical  of  kind,  imique  of  entity.  The  design 
of  this  charming  book  is  original.  All  the  people  are  alive  in  the  not  wonderful 
but  strangely  engrossing  story,  which  is  so  comical  and  pathetic,  so  quaint  and 
'racy  of  the  soil,'  so  wide  in  sympathy,  so  narrow  of  stage.  All  the  drawings 
are  excellent." —  World. 

"Very  charming.  Admirers  will  say,  not  without  reason,  that  'Kitwyk' 
recalls  'Cranford. '" — Standard. 

"  A  charming  book  ;  resting  to  read.  It  has  style,  and  is  written  with  a 
whimsical  humour  which  gives  it  distinction." — Westminster  Gasette. 

"  '  Kitwyk  '  is  the  daintiest  morsel  of  idyllic  fiction  we  have  had  since  Mr. 
Barrie  opened  that  wonderful  window  in  '  Thrums.'  Few  books  are  so 
exquisitely  wrought;  so  cunningly  pohshed." — Mr.  James  Douglas,  in 
Tke  Star. 

"The  Dutch  kingdom  is  enchanting,  and  Mrs.  John  Lane's  charming  book 
will  help  to  make  the  fact  more  widely  known." — Gentlewoman. 

"We  have  only  faintly  indicated  what  a  vein  of  jest  and  humour  Mrs.  John 
Lane  possesses." — Echo. 

"  This  is  a  most  graceful  and  altogether  charming  Dutch  version  of  Auld 
Licht  Idylls.  If  such  a  village  and  such  people,  and  such  quaint  causes  of 
laughter  and  of  tears  do  indeed  exist,  then  Kitwyk  were  well  worth  visiting, 
but  the  next  best  thing  is  to  read  Mrs.  John  Lane's  prettily  bound  and 
illustrated  little  volume." — Scotsman. 


"  A  volume  that  will  in  future  rank  with  the  immortal  'Rab.^ " 

— Manchester  Courier. 

PETERKINS 

THE     STORY     OF     A    DOG 

Translated  from  the  German  of  OssiP  Schubin 

By  MRS.   JOHN   LANE 

With  numerous  Drawings  by  Cottington  Taylor 

Crown  8vo.,  3^.  bd. 

SOME    PRESS    OPINIONS 

"  A  delicious  story  .   .  .  full  of  genuine  humour  and  character. " — Bystander. 

"  A  very  pleasing  dog  ...  a  most  moving  tale  .  .  .  Mrs.  Lane  has  done  the 
history  of  his  adventures  into  charming  English  .  .  .  not  the  least  of  the  book's 
attractions  are  the  delightful  drawings  of  Cottington  Taylor." — Daily  Telegraph. 

"  Charmingly  told.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Lane's  excellent  translation  will,  we  are  sure, 
have  as  great  a  success  as  its  German  original,  and  will  delight  all  dog  lovers." 
Saturday  Review. 

"  Let  me  strongly  recommend  as  a  Christmas  present,  '  Peterkins  "...  a 
most  fascinating  dog  .  .  .  dehghtfully  translated  by  Mrs.  John  Lane." — 
Mr;  C.  K.  Shorter,  in  Sphere. 

' '  A  charming  dog  story  ;  all  is  gracefully  and  delicately  told. " —  Westmi?ister 
Gazette. 

"  A  wonderfully  pretty  story,  translated  with  rare  taste.  .  .  .  '  Peterkins'  is  a 
book  that  must  be  read  again  and  again." — Daily  News. 

"  Peterkins  is  a  really  delightful  dog,  and  the  story  of  his  devotion  to  his 
little  mistress  will  fascinate  children  as  well  as  older  readers.  When  the  original 
first  appeared  in  Germany  it  created  a  sensation,  and  the  book  is  so  admirably 
translated  that  its  popularity  is  almost  equally  sure  in  this  country.  The 
numerous  drawings  by  Cottington  Taylor  are  excellent." — Daily  Mail. 

"  The  book  is  finely  produced,  and  Mrs.  Lane's  translation  makes  it  a  really 
good  story-book  for  old  as  well  as  young  animal  lovers." — Morning  Leader. 

"  A  charming  story." — Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

"  Mrs.  Lane's  sparkling  translation  .  .  .  '  Peterkins'  is  the  new  dog  story, 
which  is  '  simply  charming.'  " — Daily  Graphic. 

' '  Should  delight  every  English  reader,  big  as  well  as  little,  who  loves  a 
dog." — Outlook. 

"  Every  dog  has  his  day,  and  we  expect  that  '  Peterkins '  will  now  have  a  long 
one  in  this  country." — AthencEum. 

"  Dainty  and  delightful  ...  I  have  nothing  but  praise  for  Mrs.  Lane's 
story  and  Cottington  Taylor's  drawings." — Pelican. 

JOHN  LANE,  The  Bodley  Head,  Vigo  Street,  London, W. 


John    Lane's    List     of    Fiction 


By   GERTRUDE   ATHERTON 

THE    CALIFORNIANS 

Crown  8vo.  6s.  Third  Edition 

Daily  Chronicle  : — "Mrs.  Gertrude  Atherton  has  given  us  as  usual  a  clever, 
brilliant,  and  interesting  piece  of  work,  full  of  brisk  epigrams,  vivid  turns  of 
speech,  and  effective  local  colour." 

Daily  Mail :—"  '  The  Californians '  is  brilliant,  sharp,  and  vigorous,  as  was 
to  be  expected." 

British  Wee/<ly :—"  Mrs.  Atherton  is  in  our  judgment  the  ablest  woman 
writer  of  fiction  now  living." 

Standard :—"  That  Mrs.  Atherton  is  one  of  the  most  accomplished  novelists 
of  her  countrj-  there  can  be  no  manner  of  doubt." 

SENATOR     NORTH 

Crown  8vo.  6s.         Seventeenth  Edition 

New  York  Wera/rf ;—"  In  the  description  of  Washington  life  Mrs.  Atherton 
shows  not  only  a  very  considerable  knowledge  of  externals,  but  also  an 
insight  into  the  underlying  political  issues  that  is  remarkable." 

Chicago  Times-Herald .— "  Mrs.  Atherton  is  capable  of  dramatic  situations 
of  great  intensity." 

Outlook  : — "  The  novel  has  genuine  historical  value." 

Boston  Times  :—"  It  is  one  of  the  best  books  I  have  read  this  year,  and  it 
is  thoroughly  American." 

THE    ARISTOCRATS 

Crown  8vo.  6s.  Twenty-third  Thousand 

The  Times  :—"  Ocver  and  entertaining.  .  .  .  This  gay  volume  is  written 
by  some  one  with  a  pretty  wit,  an  eye  for  scenery,  and  a  mind  quick  to  grasp 
natural  as  well  as  individual  characteristics.  Her  investigations  into  the 
American  character  are  acute  as  well  as  amusing." 

The  St.  James's  Gazette  :  "  We  feel  constrained  to  warn  our  readers  that 
by  rigorously  refusing  to  order  '  The  Aristocrats  '  from  the  libr.ary,  they  will 
prevent  entrance  into  their  drawing-rooms  of  a  book  which  is  frank  almost  to 
offence,  indecorous  almost  to  naughtiness,  and  so  funny  that  on  no  account 
■would  we  have  missed  its  perusal." 

The  Bookman  (New  York) :  "  One  of  the  cleverest  books  of  the  year." 

The  Onlooker : — "  I  have  no  hesitation  in  recommending  it  strongly  to  my 
readers'  notice.  ...  It  contains  the  most  delicious  satire  and  the  brightest 
writing  that  has  been  published  for  a  long  time." 


John    Lane's    List    of     Fiction 

By    GRANT   ALLEN 

THE    WOMAN     WHO     DID 

Crown  8vo.       3^.  6d.  net     Twenty-fourth  Edition 

Sketch  : — "  None  but  the  most  foolish  or  malignant  reader  of  '  The  Woman 
Who  Did  '  can  fail  to  recognise  the  noble  purpose  which  animates  its  pages. 
.  .  .  Label  it  as  one  will,  it  remains  a  clever,  stimulating^  book.  A  real 
enthusiasm  for  humanity  blazes  through  every  page  of  this,  in  many  ways, 
most  remarkable  and  significant  little  book.  .  .  .  Even  its  bitterest  enemies 
must  feel  a  thrill  of  admiration  for  its  courage." 

Pall  Mall  Gazette :—"  His  sincerity  is  undeniable.  And  in  the  mouth  of 
Herminia  are  some  very  noble  and  eloquent  passages  upon  the  wrongs  of 
our  marriage  system."  _  .  .        , 

Scotsman  : — "  The  story  is  as  remarkable  for  its  art  as  for  its  daring.' 

THE  BRITISH  BARBARIANS 

Crown  8vo.  35-.  bd.  net  Second  Edition 

/4carfem(/;— "There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Grant  Allen  is  sincere  in 
what  he  here  expounds,  and  if  for  no  other  reason,  '  The  British  Barbarians ' 
at  least  deserves  consideration." 

Vanity  Fair:—"  The  book  is  a  clever,  trenchant  satire  on  the  petty  con- 
ventionalities of  modern  life.'' 


ANONYMOUS 

THE    MS.    IN    A     RED    BOX 

Crown  8vo,  6.f.  Second  Edition 

Speaker  : — "  It  is  that  rarest  and  most  welcome  of  works,  a  good  rornance 
of  pure  fiction.  .  .  .  The  use  made  of  local  colour  and  historical  incident  is  one 
of  the  author's  unknown  triumphs.  ...  In  these  respects  ...  it  is  the  best 
novel  that  has  appeared  since  '  Lorna  Doone.'  One  of  the  most  exciting 
books  of  its  own  kind  that  we  have  ever  read." 


By    RICHARD    BAGOT 

THE  JUST  AND  THE  UNJUST 

Crown  Svo.  6s.  Third  Edition 

Spectator:— "It  is  purely  a  novel  of  society,  and  is  interesting  chiefly 
because  it  gives  real  portraits  of  the  world  as  we  know  it.  Readers  who  like 
a  novel  dealing  with  the  world  they  live  in,  and  peopled,  not  with  dummies, 
but  with  real  live  characters,  will  find  'The  Just  and  the  Unjust'  a 
thoroughly  amusing  and  interesting  book." 

Manchester  Guardian  :—"  There  is  much  brilliant  wntmg  m  the  book, 
the  style  is  excellent,  and  the  characters  are  admirably  drawn." 

St.  James's  Gazette :—"  Mr.  Richard  Bagot  has  put  some  capital  work 
into  his  new  novel,  '  The  Just  and  the  Unjust.'  The  plot  is  good,  the  story 
is  well  constructed,  and  delicate  situations  are  delicately  handled." 

Westminster  Gazette :—"  Mr.  Bagot  knows  the  world  of  which^^  he 
writes,  and  the  character  studies  in  this  volume  are  drawn  with  subtlety. 


John    Lane's    List    of    Fiction 


By   ARNOLD   BENNETT 

A  MAN  FROM  THE  NORTH 

Crown  8vo.  3j.  bd. 

Black  and  White  :^"  A  work  that  will  come  to  the  jaded  novel  reader  as  a 
splendid  surprise." 

Outlooh  : — "  Literary  insight  and  comprehension." 

Daily  Chronicle :—"  Admirably  fresh  and  brisk,  vibrating  with  a  wild, 
young  ecstasy." 

By    H.    H.    BASHFORD 

THE      MANITOBAN 

By  the  Author  of  "  Tommy  Wideawake  " 
Crown  8vo.  6s. 

Morning  Post  .•— "  Nothing  save  admiration  will  be  felt  for  the  sketches  of 
Canadian  life  and  character." 

Literary  World  ;— "  Mr.  Bashford's  clever  and  absorbing  story." 

By   EX-LIEUT.   BILSE 

LIFE  IN  A  GARRISON  TOWN 

(AUS  EINER  KLEINEN  GARNISON) 
With  a  Portrait  of  the  Author,  Summary  of  the 
Court-Martial,  an  Introduction  by  Arnold  White, 
and  a  New  Preface  written  by  the  Author  whilst  in 

Prison 
Crown  8vo.  65.  Fourth  Edition 

World: — "An  indictment  of  a  great  system,  the  exposure  of  gigantic 
evils,  odious  abuses,  deadly  moral  and  physical  wrongs ;  is  much  more 
important  than  any  novel  destined  to  take  its  chance  as  such  with  other 
novels." 

Truth  : — "  The  disgraceful  exposures  of  the  book  were  expressly  admitted 
to  be  true  by  the  Minister  of  War  in  the  Reichstag.  What  the  book  will 
probably  suggest  to  you  is,  that  German  militarism  is  cutting  its  own  throat, 
and  will  one  day  be  hoist  with  its  own  petard." 

DEAR      FATHERLAND 


c 


rown   ovo. 


6s. 


Daily  Telegraph  :—"  At  once  fascinating  and  disgusting.  .  .  .  The  book 
is  a  terrible  indictment  of  the  soulless  and  brutalised  militarism  of  the 
Father! md.  ...  A  strong  book,  and  one  to  be  read  by  all  interested  in  the 
present  and  future  of  the  German  Empire  .  .  .  perhaps  a  better  book  from 
a  literary  point  of  view  than  '  Life  in  a  Garrison  Town.' " 


John     Lane's    List    of     Fiction 


By   T.    B.    CLEGG 

THE    LOVE    CHILD 

Crown  8vo.  6s.  Second  Edition 

Tfuth  :—"  A  singularly  powerful  book.  .  .  .  The  painful  story  grips  you 
from  first  to  last." 

Vanity  Fair : — "  Extremely  powerful.  .  .  .  It  has  the  true  power  of  tragedy. 
.  .  .  Mr.  Clegg  shows  a  brilliant  power  of  character  creation  and  develop- 
ment. ...  In  the  scope  of  his  comprehension  of  human  nature,  in  the  width 
of  his  sympathy,  in  his  communing  with  nature,  he  shows  himself  a  really 
great  writer." 

Daily  Telegraph  :—"  A  strong  and  interesting  story,  the  fruit  of  careful 
thought  and  conscientious  workmanship.  .  .  .  Mr.  Clegg  has  presented 
intensely  dramatic  situations  without  letting  them  degenerate  into  the  melo- 
dramatic." „ 

Pall  Mall  Gazette : — "  Mr.  Clegg's  book  is  one  that  will  be  remembered. 

Morning  Leader: — "The  material  of  the  novel  is  splendid.  .  .  .The 
character  of  Mary  Temple  is  drawn  in  a  powerful,  even  masterly,  manner." 


By   G.   K.  CHESTERTON 

THE  NAPOLEON  OF 
NOTTING    HILL 

With  Seven  Illustrations  and  a  Cover  Design  by  W. 
Graham  Robertson,  and  a  Map  of  the  Seat  of  War. 
Crown  8vo.  6s. 

Mr.  James  Douglas,  in  the  Star: — "An  allegorical  romance,  a  didactic 
fantasy,  a  humorous  whimsy.  It  is  not  easy  to  say  what  it  means ;  Mr. 
Chesterton  himself  probably  does  not  know." 

Daily  Mail : — "  Mr.  Chesterton,  as  our  laughing  philosopher,  is  at  his  best 
in  this  delightful  fantasy." 

Westminster  Gazette;— "  It  is  undeniably  clever.  _  It  scintillates — that  is 
exactly  the  right  word — with  bright  and  epigrammatic  observations,  and  it 
is  written  throughout  with  undoubted  literary  skill." 

By    VICTORIA    CROSSE 

THE  WOMAN  WHO  DIDNT 

Crown  8vo.  35.  6d.  net  Third  Edition 

Speaker: — "  The  feminine  gift  of  intuition  seems  to  be  developed  with 
almost  uncanny  strength,  and  what  she  sees  she  has  the  power  of  flashing 
upon  her  readers  with  wonderful  vividness  and  felicity  of  phrase.  .  _.  . 
A  strong  and  subtle  study  of  feminine  nature,  biting  irony,  restrained  passion, 
and  a  style  that  is  both  forcible  and  polished." 


John    Lane's     List    of     Fiction 


By    GEORGE    EGERTON 

KEYNOTES 

Crown   8vo.  35.  bd.  net  Ninth  Edition 

St  James's  Gazette : — "This  is  a  collection  of  eight  of  the  prettiest  short 
stories  that  have  appeared  for  many  a  day.  They  turn  for  the  most  part  on 
feminine  traits  of  character  ;  in  fact,  the  book  is  a  little  psychological  study 
of  woman  under  various  circumstances.  The  characters  are  so  admirably 
drawn,  and  the  scenes  and  landscapes  are  described  with  so  much  and  so  rare 
vividness,  that  we  cannot  help  being  almost  spell-bound  by  their  perusal." 
Daily  News  : — "  Singularly  artistic  in  its  brilliant  suggestiveness." 
Literary  World : — "  These  lovely  sketches  are  informed  by  such  throbbing 
feeling,  such  insight  into  complex  woman,  that  we  with  all  speed  and  warmth 
advise  those  who  are  in  search  of  splendid  literature  to  purchase  '  Keynotes  ' 
without  delay." 

DISCORDS 

Crown   8vo.  35.  bd.  net  Sixth  Edition 

Daily  Telegraph  .-—"These  masterly  word-sketches." 

Literary  World  : — "  She  has  given,  times  without  number,  examples  of  her 
ripening  powers  that  astonish  us.  Her  themes  astound  ;  her  audacity  is 
tremendous.  In  the  many  great  passages  an  advance  is  proved  that  is  little 
short  of  amazing." 

Speaker  : — "  The  book  is  true  to  human  nature,  for  the  author  has  genius, 
and,  let  us  add,  has  heart.  It  is  representative ;  it  is,  in  the  hackneyed 
phrase,  a  human  document." 

SYMPHONIES 

Crown   8vo.  6s.  Second  Edition 

St.  James's  Gazette : — "There  is  plenty  of  pathos  and  no  little  power  in 
the  volume  before  us." 

Daily  News: — "The  impressionistic  descriptive  passages  and  the  human 
touches  that  abound  in  the  book  lay  hold  of  the  imagination  and  linger  in  the 
memory  of  the  reader." 

Daily  Telegraph  :—"  The  story  entitled  'A  Chilian  Episode'  is  actually 
alive  with  the  warm  light  and  the  sensuous  climate  of  the  Bay  of  Valparaiso." 

FANTASIAS 

Crown   8vo.  35.  6d.  net 

Daily  Chronicle: — "These  '  Fantasias '  are  pleasant  reading — tj-pical  scenes 
or  tales  upon  the  poetry  and  prose  of  life,  prostitution,  and  the  beauty  of 
dreams  and  truth." 

Academy: — "The  writing  is  often  extremely  clever:  the  clever,  self- 
conscious  writing  of  one  who  has  read  much." 


John     Lane*s    List    of     Fiction 

By  the  Author  of  "Elizabeth's  Children" 

THE    YOUNG    O'BRIENS 

Crown   8vo.  6s. 

HELEN      ALLISTON 

Crown  8vo.  6s. 

Literary  World : — "A  succession  of  delighting  chapters,  ending  with  one  in 
which  the  author  excels  herself.  It  is  a  long  time  since  we  have  read  a 
more  graceful  conclusion." 

Pall  Mall  Gazette :  "  The  book  has  vivacity,  fluency,  colour,  more  than  a 
touch  of  poetry  and  passion.  .  .  .  We  shall  look  forward  with  interest  to 
future  work  by  the  author  of  '  Helen  Alliston.'  " 

Daily  Graphic: — "The  dialogue  all  through  is  sparkling  with  wit  .  .  . 
scarcely  a  dull  line  from  beginning  to  end  .  .  .  the  children  are  delightful." 

Daily  News  : — "A  singularly  pretty  narrative." 

St.  James's  Gazette  : — "All  child  lovers  will  delight  in  this  book." 

Bystander: — "  A  delightful  story,  thoroughly  fresh  and  wholesome,  written 
in  a  light  and  pleasant  style,  and  with  considerable  literary  skill." 

ELIZABETH'S    CHILDREN 

Crown   8vo.  6s.  Fifth  Edition 

Daily  Telegraph  :—"  The  book  is  charming  .  .  .  the  author  .  .  .  has  a 
delicate  fanciful  touch,  a  charming  imagination  .  .  .  skilfully  suggests 
character  and  moods  ...  is  bright  and  witty,  and  writes  about  children 
with  exquisite  knowledge  and  sympathy." 

Daily  Mail: — "The  work  is  witty,  neatly  phrased,  full  of  fun  and  good 
feeling  from  the  first  page  to  the  last." 

Morning  Leader: — "Very  prettily  written.  .  .  .  The  author  has  a 
charming  style." 

By  W.  S.  JACKSON 

HELEN    OF    TROY,    N.Y. 

Crown  8vo.  65. 

Daily  Chronicle: — "The  story  is  at  once  original,  impossible,  artificial, 
and  very  amusing.     Go,  get  the  work  and  read." 

NINE  POINTS  OF  THE  LAW 

Crown  8vo.  6;. 

Manchester  Guardian: — "The  kindly  humorous  philosophy  of  this 
most  diverting  story  is  as  remarkable  as  its  attractive  style.  There  is  hardly 
a  page  without  something  quotable,  some  neat  bit  of  phrasing  or  apt  wording 
of  a  truth." 


John    Lane's     List    of     Fiction 

By    HERBERT    FLOWERDEW 

A     CELIBATE'S     WIFE 

Crown  8vo.  6s.  Second  Edition 

Speaher : — "  Mr.  Flowerdew  does  undoubtedly  exhibit  a  power  of  graphic 
and  vivid  narration." 

Daily  Chronicle  : — "  The  book  has  many  and  strilcing  merits.  The  plot  is 
bold  and  original." 

Daily  Mail : — "Unmistakably  clever  as  a  piece  of  literary  work.  .  .  .  Some 
excellent  writing,  and  some  equally  excellent  and  sharp  analysis  of  character." 

THE     REALIST 

Crown  8vo.  6s. 

Pall  Mall  Gazette  : — "  Those  who  love  a  story  which  will  hold  their  attention 
closely  from  the  first  page  to  the  last  need  not  go  further  than  '  The  Realist.'  " 

MARCH     HARES 

Crown  8vo.  3^.   6d.  net  Third  Edition 

MRS.    ALBERT    GRUNDY 

OBSERVATIONS    IN   PHILISTIA 
Fcap.   8vo.  3^.   6d.   net  Second  Edition 

By    ELIZABETH    GODFREY 

THE     WINDING     ROAD 

Crown   8vo.  6s.  Second   Edition 

Literary  World: — "A  carefully  written  story.  .  .  IVIiss  Godfrey  has  the 
mind  of  a  poet  ;  her  pages  breathe  of  the  beautiful  in  nature  without  giving 
long  description,  while  the  single-hearted  love  between  Jasper  and  Phenice  is 
described  with  power  and  charm." 

By    VALENTINA    HAWTREY 

PERRONELLE 

Crown  8vo.  6s. 

Times : — "  The  story  is  a  passionate  one,  a  thing  of  lightning  flashes  of 
pleasure  and  pain.  .  .  .  With  no  display  of  efTort,  with  no  laborious  intro- 
duction of  correct  detail,  she  wraps  everything  in  an  atmosphere  of  old  Paris. 
Here  is  all  the  mediaeval  delight  in  beautiful  things,  in  craftsmanship;  here 
all  the  cruelty  and  brutality,  all  the  passion  and  stress,  and  the  brave 
uncertainty  of  life." 

Pall  Mall  Gazette  : — "A  piece  of  exquisite  literary  work." 


John   Lane's    List   of   Fiction 

By  RICHARD   GARNETT 

THE    TWILIGHT    OF    THE 
GODS      AND      OTHER      STORIES 

Crown  8vo.  6^.  Second  Edition 

Daily  Chronicle :—"  A  subtle  compound  of  philosophy  and  irony.  Let 
the  reader  take  these  stories  as  pure  fun — lively  incident  and  droll  character 
— and  he  will  be  agreeably  surprised  to  find  how  stimulating  they  are." 

Times: — "Here  is  learning  in  plenty,  drawn  from  all  ages  and  most 
languages,  but  of  dryness  or  dulness  not  a  sentence.  The  book  bubbles 
with  laughter.   .    .    .   His  sense  of  humour  has  a  wide  range." 

By  ANNIE    E.  HOLDSWORTH 

A    NEW     PAOLO     AND 
FRANCESC A 

Crown  8vo.  6s. 

Bookman  : — "Picturesque,  intense,  and  poetical." 


THE    EARL    OF    IDDESLEIGH 

LUCK    O'   LASSENDALE 

Crown  8vo.  6^. 

Mr.  A.  T.  QuiLLER-CoucH,  in  the  Daily  News : — "  It  puzzles  me  how  any 
man  who  admires  '  Mansfield  Park '  intelligently  can  treat  '  Luck  o'  Lassen- 
dale  '  as  a  thing  of  no  account." 

Boohman  : — "  We  have  a  throw-back  to  Jane  Austen,  and,  in  my  judgment, 
a  remarkable  one,  although  its  shrewd  humour  would  seem  to  have  escaped 
apprehension  by  the  reviewers." 

CHARMS 

Crown  8vo.  bs. 

St.  James's  Gazette : — "A  charming  and  pathetic  tale,  absorbing  to  the 
end." 


John     Lane's     List    of    Fiction 


By  HENRY    HARLAND 
THE 

CARDINAL'S    SNUFF-BOX 

A  New  Edition,  with   Title-Page,  Cover  Design, 
End    Papers,  and  nearly   lOO  Drawings  by  G.   C. 

WiLMSHURST. 

Crown  8vo.  6s.  165th  Thousand 

Academy  ;— "  The  drawings  are  all  excellent  in  style  and  really  illustrative 
of  the  tale." 

Times  : — "  A  book  among  a' thousand." 
Spectator  :■ — A  charming  romance." 
Saturday  Review  ;— "  Wholly  delightful." 
Pail  Mali  Gazette  :— "  Dainty  and  de  icious." 

MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

Crown  8vo.  6s.  Third  Edition 

7-/;«es:;— "There  is  no  denying  the  charm  of  the  work,  the  delicacy  and 
fragrancy  of  the  style,  the  sunny  play  of  the  dialogue,  the  vivacity  of  the 
wit,  and  the  graceful  flight  of  the  fancy."  _^ 

Worid ;— "  The  reading  of  it  is  a  pleasure  rare  and  unalloyed. 

THE     LADY     PARAMOUNT 

Crown  8vo.  6^.  Fifty-fifth  Thousand 

COMEDIES     AND     ERRORS 

Crown  8vo.  6s.  Third  Edition 

Mr.  W.  L.  Courtney,  in  the  Daiiy  Teiegrapii :—"  A  kind  of  younger 
Pater,  emancipated  from  those  cramping  academic  bonds  which  occasionally 
injured  Mr.  Pater's  work.  Mr.  Harlandis  younger,  freer,  with  juvenile 
spirits  and  a  happy  keenness  and  interest  in  life.  He  is  more  of  a  creator 
and  less  of  a  critic  ;  perhaps  some  day  he  will  even  achieve  the  same  kind 
of  literary  distinction  as  that  which  adorned  his  older  rival." 

Mr.  Henry  James,  in  Fortnightly  Review:— M.r.  Harland  has  clearly 
thought  out  a  form.  ...  He  has  mastered  a  method  and  learned  how  to 
paint.  .  .  .  His  art  is  all  alive  with  felicities  and  delicacies." 

GREY     ROSES 

Crown  8vo.  3^.  6ci.  net  Fourth  Edition 

Daily  Telegraph  :—"  '  Grey  Roses '  are  entitled  to  rank  among  the  choicest 
flowers  of  the  realms  of  romance." 

Spectator :—"  Really  delightful.  '  Castles  near  Spain  '  is  as  near  perfection 
as  it  could  well  be.  " 

MADEMOISELLE        MISS 

Crown  8vo.  3^.  6d.  Third  Edition 

Speaker:—"  All  through  the  book  we  are  pleased  and  entertained." 


John    Lane's     List    of    Fiction 

By  RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE 

THE     QUEST      OF      THE 

GOLDEN     GIRL:      A  Romance 

Crown  8vo.  6s.  Fifteenth  Edition 

World : — "  It  is  certainly  a  book  to  read,  for  it  would  be  a  pity  to  miss 
the  many  exquisite  passages  it  contains." 
Daily  News : — "  A  piece  of  literary  art  which  compels  our  admiration." 

THE 

ROMANCE  OF  ZION  CHAPEL 

Crown  8vo,  6s.  Second  Edition 

St.  James's  Gazette  :—"  Mr.  Le  Gallienne's  masterpiece." 

THE 
BOOK  BILLS  OF  NARCISSUS 

Crown  8vo.  3^.  6ci.  n^t         Second  Edition 

THE 
WORSHIPPER  OF  THE  IMAGE 

Crown   8vo.  35.  6d.  net. 

Daily  Chronicle : "  Contains  passages  of  a  poignancy  which  Mr.  Le  Gallienne 
has  never  before  compassed." 

By    A.    E.    J.    LEGGE  " 

THE     FORD 

Crown  8vo.  6s.  Second  Edition 

standard: — "An  impressive  work  .  .  .  clei'er  and  thoughtful.  'The 
Ford  '  deserves  to  be  largely  read." 

Mr.  James  Douglas,  in  Star: — "It  is  full  of  finely  phrased  wit  and 
costly  satire.     It  is  modern  in  its  handling,  and  it  is  admirably  written." 

MUTINEERS 

Crown  8vo.  6s. 

Spealter : — "An  interesting  story  related  with  admirable  lucidity  and 
remarkable  grasp  of  character.     Mr.  Legge  writes  with  polish  and  grace." 

BOTH  GREAT  AND  SMALL 

Crown  8vo.  6s. 

Saturday  Review : — "  We  read  on  and  on  with  increasing  pleasure." 


John     Lane's    List    of     Fiction 

By   WILLIAM    J.  LOCKE 

Crown  8vo.  6;. 

THE    MORALS    OF 
MARCUS  ORDEYNE 

Mr.  C.  K.  Shorter,  in  Sphere: — "A  book  which  has  just  delighted  my 
heart."  ... 

Truth  :—"  Mr.  Locke's  new  novel  is  one  of  the  most  artistic  pieces  of  work 
I  have  met  with  for  many  a  day." 

Mr.  L.  F.  Austin,  in  Daily  Chronicle: — "Mr.  Locke  succeeds,  indeed, 
in  every  crisis  of  this  most  original  story." 

Vanity  Fair :—"  A  very  striking  work." 

WHERE    LOVE    IS 

Mr.  James  Douglas,  in  Star : — "I  do  not  often  praise  a  book  with  this 
exultant  gusto,  but  it  gave  me  so  much  spiritual  stimulus  and  moral 
pleasure  that  I  feel  bound  to  snatch  the  additional  delight  of  commending 
it  to  those  readers  who  long  for  a  novel  that  is  a  piece  of  literature  as  well  as 
a  piece  of  life." 

DERELICTS 

Daily  Chronicle : — "  Mr.  Locke  tells  his  story  in  a  very  true,  very  moving, 
and  very  noble  book.  If  anyone  can  read  the  last  chapter  with  dry  eyes  we 
shall  be  surprised.     '  Derelicts'  is  an  impressive  and  important  book." 

IDOLS 

Daily  Telegraph  : — "A  brilliantly  written  and  eminently  readable  book." 

THE     USURPER 

THE    WHITE    DOVE 

AT  THE  GATE  OF  SAMARIA 

PREVIOUS    NOVELS    BY    W.    J.    LOCKE 
A    STUDY    IN    SHADOWS 

Crown  8vo.  35.  6d.  Second  Edition 

THE    DEMAGOGUE    AND    LADY 
PHAYRE 

Crown  8vo.  3^.  6d.  New  Edition 


John     Lane's    List    of     Fiction 

By   CHARLES    MARRIOTT 

THE     COLUMN 

Crown  8vo.  65.  Thirteenth  Thousand 

Daily  News  : — "  A  notable  book  ...  an  important  book.  A  novel  which 
brings  together  strong  and  subtle  power  of  suggesting  character,  remarkable 
humour,  and  all  the  best  faculties  of  the  writers  known  to  every  one." 

Mr.  W.  L.  Courtney,  in  Daily  Telegraph  :~"  Whoever  Mr.  Charles 
Marriott  may  be,  he  has  written  a  very  remarkable  novel.  .  .  .  Let  us  be 
thankful  to  Mr.  Charles  IMarriott.  He  has  written  a  book  very  fresh,  very 
original,  very  interesting  and  suggestive.  He  has  handled  situations  in 
the  true  spirit  of  an  artist.  His  style  is  careful.  Above  all,  he  thinks 
for  himself." 

Tfuth  : — "  The  promising  work  of  a  powerful  pen." 

LOVE    WITH    HONOUR 

Crown  8vo.    .  6s. 

Mr.  W.  L.  Courtney,  in  Daily  Telegraph :—"  Mr.  Marriott  handles  his 
scenes  in  the  true  spirit  of  an  artist.  There  are  chapters  in  this  book  which 
are  not  only  picturesquely  written,  but  intrinsically  vivid  and  strong." 

Outlooh : — "  Mr.  Charles  Marriott  and  the  public  are  equally  to  be  con- 
gratulated." 

THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  SANDS 

Crown  8vo.  bs. 

Daily  Telegraph  -.—"Mr.  Marriott's  new  book  has  all  the  qualities  of  a 
good  novel  and  many  of  the  qualities  of  a  great  one.  ...  It  contains  some 
superb  character  drawing,  much  subtlety  of  wit  and  genuine  epigram." 


By   CONSTANCE    E.   MAUD 
AN  ENGLISH  GIRL  IN  PARIS 

Crown  Svo.  bs.  Fourth  Edition 

Onlooker  : — "  '  An  English  Girl  in  Paris'  is  taut  d.  fait  Parisienne.  It  is 
chic,  it  is  amusing,  and  it  is  artistic." 

Westminster  Gazette :—"  A  delightful  book — a  book  which  keeps  one 
constantly  interested  and  amused  ;  a  book  through  which  there  is  a  constant 
ripple  of  humour." 

Outlooh  .-—"A  charming  book  ;  and  a  piece  of  literatuie  as  well." 


John    Lane's     List    of     Fiction 


By   T.    BARON   RUSSELL 

BORLASE    AND    SON 

Crown   8vo.  6^. 

Bookman : — "Judged  as  literature,  we  know  of  no  novel  published  this  year 
that  is  likely  to  rank  higher  than  '  Borlase  and  Son.'  The  people  are 
intensely  human  ;  the  life  it  describes  is  every-day  life ;  its  events  grip  the 
attention  and  haunt  the  memory,  as  things  do  that  have  really  happened." 

Vanity  Fail- : — "  Demands  attention  as  a  very  notable  book." 

Dailg  Chronicle : — An  author  who  thoroughly  knows  what  he  is  writing 
about.  .  .  .  The  details  of  the  life  in  the  Peckhani  diaper's  are  made 
interesting  to  the  reader  by  the  sheer  force  of  their  realism.  .  .  .  Borlase 
senior  is  an  admirable  piece  of  character  drawing." 

St.  James's  Gazette: — "Mr.  Russell  hasevidently  learned  his  subject  from 
inside,  and  he  has  a  ready  pen  as  well  as  the  real  faculty  of  making  his 
reader  see  what  he  himself  has  seen." 

Morning  Leader: — "The  real  originality  of  the  book  lies  in  the  author's 
remarkable  knowledge  of,  and  insight  into,  the  life  which  he  describes,  and 
his  power  of  making  his  personages  live  and  move." 

A  GUARDIAN  OF  THE  POOR 


Crown  8vo. 


6^. 


Pall  Mall  Gazette: — "Mr.  Baron  Russell  has  succeeded  so  admirably,  so 
convincingly,  in  this  difficult  task,  that  I  only  check  the  eulogies  quivering 
at  the  point  of  my  pen  for  fear  they  may  read  like  'gush.'  " 

Mr.  CouLSON  Kernahan,  in  the  Temple  Magazine: — "Haunting,  and 
all  the  more  haunting  because  pictured  with  such  realism  and  such  art.  Mr. 
Russell  is  the  Zola  of  Camberwell  and  Peckham." 


THE     MANDATE 


Crown  8vo. 


6s. 


Graphic : — "  Besides  its  merits  of  originality,  it  has  those  of  a  remarkably 
virile  style,  and  of  a  capacity  for  the  portrayal  of  real  passion  which  we 
trust  to  meet  again." 

Boohman : — "  Original  and  striking.  .  .  .  There  is  unmistakable  talent 
in  the  book.     Mr.  Russell  should  go  far." 

Outlook : — "  A  peculiar  blending  of  careful  realism  with  careful  sensation. 
The  main  characters  are  well  drawn." 

Morning  Leader  : — "  '  The  Mandate  '  is  a  novel  out  of  the  common,  and  is 
stamped  with  the  impress  of  no  little  creative  power." 


John    Lane's    List    of    Fiction 


By   R.  E.  S.  SPENDER 


DISPLAY 


A     Romance 
Crown  8vo.  6^. 

Literary  World : — "  A  brilliant  skit  upon  the  modern  sensational  Press 
...   a  humorous  story  of  a  type  that  is  rare." 

Morning  Leader; — "  The  opening  chapters  of  'Display'  are  among  the 
best  pieces  of  serious  levity  produced  of  late  years  ...  a  very  clever 
piece  of  work,  with  plenty  of  real  wit  and  satire  m  it." 

Globe  : — "  An  excellent  mingling  of  satire,  humour,  and  adventure.  .  .  . 
A  highly  diverting  work,  full  of  racy  character  sketches  and  witty  dialogue." 

Academy  : — "  Read  it  we  must,  for  it  will  be  talked  about. "_ 

Glasgow  Herald: — "Mr.  Spender's  work  is  absorbingly  interesting  by 
reason  of  the  ripe  philosophy,  pungent  humour,  and  gracefully  won  erudition 
of  its  author." 

By  HERMANN   SUDERMANN 

REGINA;    or,  THE  SINS 
OF    THE    FATHERS 

A  Translation  of  "Der  Katzensteg,"  by  Beatrice 

Marshall. 
Crown  8vo.  6s.  Third  Edition 

Spectator;— "The  author  has  handled  his  terrible  theme  with  wonderful  force 
and  simplicity.  .  .  .  Regina  is  a  strangely  pathetic,  and  even  heroic  figure, 
while  there  is  an  elemental  force  in  the  passions — hate,  love,  avarice,  and 
cruelty — of  the  various  dramatis  perso»(E  which  lend  them  an  impressiveness 
rarely  encountered  in  a  novel  of  English  life." 

St.  James's  Gazette: — "A  striking  piece  of  work,  full  of  excitement  and 
strongly-drawn  character." 

Globe :—"  The  novel  is  a  striking  one,  and  deserves  a  careful  and  critical 
attention."  

By   A.  C.  THYNNE 

SIR     BEVILL 


8 


vo. 


65. 


Crown 

Academy: — "Altogether  delightful,  setting  the  reader  amid  broom  and 
heather  on  the  Devon  Moors,  or  by  the  sounding  sea  on  the  Cornish  coast. 
...  All  the  everyday  life  is  admirably  rendered,  and  many  of  the  side 
characters  are  brilliantly  sketched." 

Outlook :—"  A.  very  living  and  lovable  bit  of  work,  sweet  with  the  scent 
of  heather  and  breath  of  the  sea." 

Mr.  G.  R.  Sims,  in  Referee  .—"A  most  delightful  book,  the  work  of  an  old 
friend  of  mine,  Canon  Thynne." 


John    Lane's     List     of    Fiction 

By  G.    S.   STREET 

THE 

WISE  AND  THE  WAYWARD 

Crown  8vo.  6^. 

Academy: — "Mr.  Street  writes  easily,  with  distinction  ...  he  wields  a 
fine  swiftly-poised  phrase,  and  has  the  gift  of  throwing  his  characters  and 
situations  into  strong  reUef,  happily  and  without  tediousness." 

Westminster  Gazette : — "  The  cleverness  of  Mr.  Street's  analysis  is 
undeniable." 

World  : — ''  Distinctly  a  book  to  be  read." 

St.  James's  Gazette: — "An  admirably  written  and  exceedingly  clever 
work." 

Truth: — "Clever — very,  very  clever — its  characters  being  admirably 
drawn,  and  its  conversations  at  once  smart  and  natural." 

THE 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  BOY 

Fcap.  8vo.  3^.  6d.  net  Fifth  Edition 

Pall  Mall  Gazette: — "A  creation  in  which  there  appears  to  be  no  flaw." 
Speaker: — "The    conception   is  excellent   and   the   style  perfect.      One 
simmers  with  laughter  from  first  to  last." 
Review  of  Reviews :— A  most  brilliant  satire." 
World  :—"  A  delicate  and  delightful  piece  of  literature." 

THE 

TRIALS  OF  THE  BANTOCKS 

Crown  8vo.  3.J.  6d,  net 

Westminster  Gazette  :—"  Since  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold  left  us  we  remember 
nothing  so  incisive  about  the  great  British  Middle,  and  we  know  of  nothing 
of  Mr.  Street's  that  we  like  so  well.' 

Saturday  Review  :—"  Mr.  Street  has  a  very  delicate  gift  of  satire." 
Black  and   White :—"  All   very   funny,   and    quite    in   the  best   style  of 
Mr.  Street's  humour." 

Public   Opinion  : — "  Mr.    Street   has    never  given    us    any   better    satire 

than  this." 

Times  : — "A  piece  of  irony  that  is  full  of  distinction  and  wit." 

Standard: — "A  book  to  read  and  laugh  over.  .  .  .  Mr.  Street  adds  to 

wit  and  cleverness   a  literary  style  that  has  helped  to  give  him  his  enviable 

reputation  as  a  satirist  and  a  humorist." 


John    Lane's    List    of     Fiction 


By  HAROLD  WINTLE 

THE    CLEANSING    OF   THE 

"  LORDS  ":  A  Political  Romance 
Crown  8vo.  6^. 

Morning  Leader : — "  One  of  the  most  diverting  and  brilliant  of  political 

romances  since  Disraeli  died." 

Manchester  Courier  : — "A  clever  story.     .     .     written  with  great  humour." 
Glasgow  Herald  : — "  This  whimsical  story.    .    .     .     Mr.  Wintle  has  every 

opportunity  for  displaying  his  very  pretty  gift  of  social  and  political  satire." 


By  H.  B.  MARRIOTT  WATSON 

AT   THE    FIRST    CORNER 

AND        OTHER       STORIES 

Crown  8vo.  3^.  6d.  net 

Saturday  Review : — "  Admirably  conceived  and  brilliantly  finished  ;    the 

book  will  be  read." 

Pall  Mall  Gazette  : — "  Brilliance,  versatility,  and  literary  power." 

Blach  and  White  : — "  Remarkable  for  diversitj'  of  subject  and  brilliance  of 

style.     Every  page  of  this  charming  volume  is  original." 

GALLOPING    DICK:    A  Romance 

Crown   8vo.  6s. 

Daily  Telegraph  : — "We  have  an  always  attractive  theme  worked  up  in 
an  unpretentious  but  thoroughly  effective  style." 

THE  HEART  OF  MIRANDA 

Crown  8vo.  65. 

Pall  Mall  Gazette : — "  iVIr.  Watson's  style  is  distinguished  for  its  happiness 
of  selection,  its  suggestiveness,  and  refinement." 
Daily  Telegraph  : — "  Mr.  Watson  has  produced  another  remarkable  book." 

By  M.  P.  WILLCOCKS 

WIDDICOMBE 

Crown  8vo.  6s. 

Evening  Standard : — "  Wonderfully  alive  and  pulsating  with  a  curious 
fervour,  which  brings  round  the  reader  the  very  atmosphere  which  the 
author  describes.  ...  A  fine,  rather  unusual  novel.  .  .  .  There  are  some 
striking  studies  of  women." 

Truth  : — "  A  first  novel  of  most  unusual  promise." 

Queen  : — "  An  unusually  clever  book." 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


RtC'D  LD-URl 
juto  9  1S90 


Form  L9-32m-8,'58(5876s4)444 


PR 

4876 

L217C 


L  006  026  572  5 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  367  174 


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